Walking the Planks at Halifax Canada

Walking along the Halifax waterfront, I don’t see what you see. I can’t describe to you the colours of the small boats and tall ships gently rocking against the docks, the way a sail flutters in the distance as it catches the wind, the looks on the faces of the tourists streaming by. To my eyes, colour is replaced by shades of grey, or so I assume with no colour reference from which to draw. To my eyes, what lies in the distance is reduced to vague shapes and the whim of my imagination. To my eyes, the faces of those around me are blurred, lacking individual personality and made impossible to define in bright sunlight.
Walking along the Halifax waterfront, having made this 4,500 km journey alone, I am released from the tether marked “legally blind” that bound me to the distance my feet could travel, to the kindness of those offering rides, to imagined limitations born from fear of the unknown. Stepping aboard an airplane alone, I have broken this bond and in doing so found courage, strength, confidence, freedom, and the knowledge that I can.
Walking along the Halifax waterfront, I can’t see what you see, but walk with me and share my experience.

The morning fog has lifted, and the harbour stretches out before you, the water rolling gently, slapping lazily at the pier. Stepping from pavement to boardwalk, soft wooden planks muffle your footfalls, the briefest hesitation rising as a loose board quivers beneath your feet. Breathing deeply, the smell of bread and garlic tempts your senses as you pass the waterfront restaurants, while underneath lies the familiar smell of wet wood and the sea.
Passing the Sands at Salter, you notice the sea has receded, leaving bare rocks and the dark fingerprint of water on wooden dock supports. On this boardwalk jutting out into the harbour, surrounded by water and away from the shelter of buildings, the wind joins you on your journey, toying with your clothing and caressing your cheeks, reminding you of sailors embarking bravely, at the whim of water and weather. You walk on, your fingertips trailing along the chain link fence beside you.
A woman sits under a tree on a low brick wall, the radio next to her playing a fiddle tune as spoons slap between her hand and knee in time. In the distance, you hear a bagpipe, and in front of the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, you soon find the culprit. The mournful wail of the pipes fills the air as you move through the small crowd gathered at a safe distance from the kilted young man, his case placed strategically far enough away to encourage payment from those listening. Approaching The Wave sculpture in front of the museum, you marvel at the children climbing the towering art piece, the chiseled stone warning signs at its base at odds with the rubberized surface installed beneath to catch those who might fall.
The smell of fish and chips reaches you as you approach the food stalls, the temptation of a quintessentially Canadian bacon poutine or Beavertail having overcome the fidgeting people standing in line. You navigate through this swell of bodies and approach the Tall Ship Silva as tour guides call out to offer a harbour sail. Trailing your fingers over the thick ropes binding the ship to the dock, you hear her moving, alive in the soft creak of wood gently rising and falling, waiting, ready to be free.
You navigate through a sea of faces, past a family taking pictures with Theodore Tugboat beside the ferry terminal, around diners enjoying the waterfront view on restaurant patios, through the crowd of people gathered to enjoy an ice cream cone.
Now the wave of bodies thins and your pace quickens as you walk alone beside the water, nearing the end of the Harbourwalk. You notice the quiet here as you stroll to a bench at the end of Purdy’s Wharf extending far out into the harbour, surrounding you with water. You sit and breathe in the moist air, the quiet, the sun on your skin, the knowledge that you are here and you are free.

I once considered myself bound by limitations, held by a tether only as long as the generosity of companions with cars, the schedule of city bus routes, the fear of straying from known footpaths. Rarely would I wander far enough to add tension to the line, preferring instead the comfort of the slack coiled at my feet. I once believed this tether to be physical, but in an act of heart-racing courage, I stepped onto that plane, loosed the ropes that bound me, set sail in the world, and found myself free.

About the author: Taking that first solo trip from her home in Saskatchewan to the East Coast of Canada, Heather opened her mind to the possibility of future travel opportunities despite being visually impaired. She has since returned to Halifax several times, and has now ventured as far afield as India.

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