The tide surges in, resolved to fight its way back into the bay. You run up the steep staircase, hoping to beat the rising sea to the top of the cliff. A yelp as a squirt of water splashes your side. The sea waits for no one.
Folks here know its rhythms, live by them. Its sway tells fishermen when to cast their nets, when to retreat. It keeps tempo for the old-timer playing the fiddle and the young dancer stepping to an old Gaelic jig.
In rollicking pubs from Halifax to St. John's, the infectious cheer of hearty maritimers buoys your spirit and raises the roof. Conversations come as easy as a pint of local brew sliding down the bar. You can't remember the last time you sang so loud or laughed so hard.
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