Thunderstorms came and went during the night. By early morning, it's the wind that wakes us and there is a light rain falling. We start packing inside the tent and the rain stops a little while later. The sky clears and the wind, still strong, turns to the North-West at 20-30 knots. Whitecaps are marching down Mutton Bay in well ordered rows. We pack our breakfast and hike around the sheltered side of Mitchell Island. Later on, as we continue our hike, we catch a glimpse of a white cross on the highest point of the island. There is also what looks like a white fence.

Just before reaching the fence, we notice another, older, cross. In a little hollow a few yards away, appear a number of old gravestones, half hidden in the grass and low brush.  We've just stumbled upon the old Mutton Bay cemetery. The oldest graves date back to the first half of the nineteenth century but they bear the same name as the families that still live here and that we also find higher up in the new cemetery. The fence that we had seen protects about 30 graves. I picture in my mind a funeral procession crossing from the village in a flotilla of little fishing boats, then landing on that rock ledge on the far side of the island. The weather has to be right, and the sea calm enough. The procession continues on the island, a couple of thousand feet from here, and makes the slow climb to this windswept spot, in direct view of the village and of its little church. From this point, it is easy to see that the whole village is built on rock. You can't dig a grave there. The old cemetery snuggles in a quiet spot away from the wind, but there is no more room for new graves. The most recent headstone is marked 1952. In the new cemetery, the oldest stone dates back to 1950. For two years, both cemeteries were being used together...

Meanwhile the wind has dropped a little and the weather report forecasts a calmer afternoon before a shift back to the South-West tomorrow. We'd better get going right away. The next dozen miles of coastline are protected from the North-West wind but will not offer any protection from the swells that will come up tomorrow.

At 1 pm we are on the water and follow the coast towards the North-East. The wind is still strong and tugs at our kayaks when we cross bays along the way. It is slowly dropping as forecasted.

As we get away from the Gros Mecatina Peninsula and before we get sheltered by Gros Mecatina Island, we can feel the longer swell coming from the Gulf of the St.Lawrence. It is weakened by the opposite wind but still strong enough to break into decent size rollers on the beaches at the foot of Pointe Rouge ("Red Point"). We paddle the 8-mile stretch without stopping and reach Pointe Rouge at about 3 pm. A "speeder" passing the point with three fishermen on board turns towards us. One of its passengers is standing at the prow with hands holding on the rail, looking at us. "Is this Charlie Wilcott ?" I shout. With a big smile, he nods his head... We had met Charlie on the Nordik which he also boarded in Natashquan. Born in La Tabatière and now living near Montreal, he was coming home for few weeks of fishing and getting together with friends and family. He had noticed me working on maps and charts on the boat and had sat with me for a while. He had been a gold mine of local information about the coast. He shouts that we've almost reached La Tabatière and roars away in a splash of foam.

We had noticed buildings from afar before reaching Pointe Rouge. Now we could see more isolated homes along the rocky shore, but no village. Strange, as we were expecting La Tabatière, population 500, with a fish plant, a Coast Guard station and the oldest commercial wharf in the area to be a fairly large community. As we continue and turn into La Tabatière Bay, North of the village, there is still no sign of a "downtown" area. After about an hour paddling in and out of the bay, we trace our way back and enter into Baie Rouge. We find a very sheltered small boat harbour, more houses and a gas station. La Tabatière is actually composed of three smaller communities : Old Post, Baie Rouge and La Tabatière spread around the area.

We buy a few items at the convenience store located near the small boat ramp and take a walk to the only public phone at K&K's restaurant, a half mile up the road.

As we paddle away, we spot Charlie Wilcott waving as he comes out of a house near the water. He wanted to know how the trip was going and where we'd been. He cautions us about a rocky stretch of exposed coastline just North of here and suggests that we camp at the beach just passed the public wharf. Although it's getting late (quarter to 6), we decide to keep paddling beyond the rocky stretch. The wind is now behind us, just strong enough to help us along, with a mild following sea and the late afternoon light is just beautiful. We cut diagonally across the bay and, after an hour and a half, just as the sun is turning red over the hills, we find a beautiful camping site in Havre au Poisson ("Fish Haven"). After quickly setting up the tent we use the very last glow of the setting sun to eat a quick supper.

The sky is clear and the sun is bright on Thursday morning but the wind has turned back to the West overnight and is already whipping whitecaps in our sheltered bay. It's a dry and warmer wind coming from the land, smelling of earth and pine trees. We're due for a day of rest and this is just the right spot. I add rocks around the tent to make sure it doesn't fly away. A fisherman motors right along the water's edge checking his lobster traps. He barely answers our greeting and keeps going... Not far from the camp, we find a clear brook flowing over flat rocks. The water is icy cold but the rocks are warmed by the sun. We strip and wash out the salt and sweat of the last few days and wash our smelly and salt stained clothes. After a pleasant hike along the shore (an opportunity to try out and learn to use the GPS unit I bought in Seven-Islands), we settle down to read in the sun and watch the sea. If this is paradise, I'm a believer!

The sun sets softly behind the hills and the sky lights up in a display of warm colours. "Red sky at night, sailor's delight".  We'll have good weather tomorrow.