In the autumn, after tourist season, my father would drive his big green Mercury Meteor up and down Sauble Beach, waving his arms before him and bewildering me and my little brother.

“I'm telling you…there's just no way you can drive with no hands! It's completely impossible!”

We two boys would be climbing all over the car seats, guffawing our protestations, as his hands would hover above the steering wheel.

“But you ARE, Dad! You are right NOW!” we'd screech in tandem.
“Uh uh. There's no way!” he would laugh, impishly, continuing his ruse.

Fifty years later he and I stand on the snowy shore of Colpoy's Bay, cans of beer in hand. Crystalline blue icebergs the size of boxcars bob slowly before us in the water. His arms extend wide, as if to capture the moment and seize it forever. He breathes deep, the tang of the bay filling his lungs.
Then, perplexed, he looks to me and asks
“So, where are we?”

We've been here many, many times before on our drives up and down the peninsula. And this day is one of the most beautiful of them all. Absolute stillness.

“We're right here, Dad,” I tell him.
“Yes, we are,” he says, and he chuckles as he drains the rest of his beer.