It’s been a long time since I visited Cherry Beach. You hear horror stories of murder and police brutality, so you just don’t go. Never mind that it’s far out of downtown. I went there the other night. Not to indulge my morbid sense of curiosity, but to relieve my sheer boredom with everything surrounding me. I picked up a friend and drove down to the icy water. I haven’t driven down that long, dark street in years. Now I remember why. The street is narrow and potholed, spooky and nervewracking. The silence is too creepy for words, not to mention the several cars hovering around the lakefront in the pitch dark with their lights turned off. The water smelled of decay, and even the ice covering most of it looked yellow and ill. The lone hut stood in the darkness crying out for some attention while the vultures in their cars circled the bathrooms closed for the season. We got the hell out of there.

We hightailed it downtown, but in our search for comfort and photo opportunity, we decided we still wanted to be near the water, no matter how unsettling or creepy it might be. No one would have ever though that the harbourfront would be our choice, but weird times call for weird occurences. The lake is lovely in the winter. No stench of death, no loud kids, no nothing really. A loud silence except for crackling ice, the harbourfront poses as a serene rest home for the tired boats. We had a cup of tea in the open and decided to call it a night.