Originally Published on September 10, 2015, The Cape Breton Star
I’m not an economist. I guess that’s why the logic behind the Nova Star Ferry eludes me. As you may have read recently in the news, we (taxpayers) are well on our way to spending $13-million this year to keep the Nova Star running between Yarmouth and Portland, Maine. Oh, and we mustn’t forget the $28-million we spent last year.
This is excellent news … for the residents of Maine. According to the Portland Press Herald, “Nova Star will use Portland as its home port. That means Portland-area vendors will be supplying fuel and services”.
But it’s good for Nova Scotia, too, right? The Nova Scotia International Ferry Partnership estimated that a season with one hundred-thousand visitors would pump $16.3-million into our economy. Well, it would, but last year we only saw about sixty-thousand visitors and we are on target for about the same again this year. Based on that, with my limited math skills, I figure that each Nova Star visitors contribute less than $10-million to our economy each year.
Now, compare that to Sydney.
Almost one hundred-thousand visitors will arrive in Sydney on cruise ships this year; similar to last year and the year before. According to the Port of Sydney, cruise ship activity will contribute about $27-million to the local economy.
It stands to reason that if the provincial government were to budget tens of millions for the Port of Sydney, like they have for the Nova Star in Yarmouth, the investment would result in an even greater boost to the provincial economy. But, alas, I’m just a writer – not an economist.
“George Orwell’s 1984 has always been a favorite of mine. Michael Radford’s 1984 adaptation is a masterpiece. So in 1992, with a room full of synthesizers and samplers and a clunky old Atari 1040 computer, I produced this. It’s pure, early 1990’s techno – really dated by today’s standards – but I still love it. Some of my old songs are embarrassing to listen to – but not this one.”
I pretended to be asleep. He made his breakfast and packed his lunch. It was November – dark mornings, cold house – so I stayed in bed, listening to the sounds of the dawn: boiling kettle, butter knife scraping toast, ringing spoon stirring cup of tea, turning pages of paperback western.
I heard the back door open; the raspy cough of the car starting and the heater blowing warm air to clear the frost from the windows. The trunk sprung open and I envisioned his rifle in its soft case stowed carefully away; a sandwich and a thermos of tea packed into his red knapsack, tossed on the passenger seat. The trunk slammed shut, and the backdoor opened once again. More footsteps – this time into my room.
I kept one eye opened just enough to see his silhouette against the dim light coming in from the kitchen. He stood there for a moment, looking at me, waiting beside my bed, listening for some sign of lucidity. Finally he put his hand on my head, ran his fingers through my curls, and walked out.
At the time I thought it was a funny trick, lying so still, pretending to be asleep – because everything is funny when you are a nine year old boy. I was going to tell him when he got home that I had fooled him; that I was really awake the whole time. He’d laugh and rough up my hair with his strong hand and call me a “little scamp” – like he always did – but not this time. This time, he wasn’t coming home.
You see, I could have hugged him and told him I loved him and that I admired him and wanted to be just like him, but instead I pretended to be asleep for a laugh. Things were never quite as funny after that.
Don’t ever pass up the chance to tell someone you love them.