Sardines

We were tightly packed in metal today, on board the ferry that took us from Helsinki, Finland to Tallinn, Estonia and again on the way to Kihnu Island off the coast of Parnu. Our first package was the Tallink boat; a cross between ferry and cruise ship complete with bars, dining rooms, kiosks, perfume shop, bank, cabins and casino. There may have been more; we didn't stop to explore. The ship was spilling over with passengers and making it from one floor to the next (there were seven), let alone end to end, was at the risk of having to stand for the next three hours. We searched in vain for a square corner of cushion on which to place our bottoms and there we stayed. Our perch was tucked in a back hall off the locker room past the casino and bar. At 7:30 a.m. those rooms were already packed with gamblers, beer mugs in one hand, cigarettes in the other.

Once in Estonia, passport control introduced us to the Eastern European government ways: no conversation, no smiles, just stern looks, commands and eventually a stamp in each our passports (on the exact last page - no doubt to show their superiority over all those other countries who had simply used the next available page). That done, we headed to Highway 4. The photo adorning the centerfold of the Neste gas station road map showed a pristine paved surface trailing off to a thin needle along tree lined edges. And it was, with the added feature of endless undulations. At times it felt like we hadn't left the boat. But traffic was light and we soared along at a good 80 kph clip - - until we hit gravel and dropped to 60, to 30, to a crawl, then back up to 80 again and down once more. That needle at the end of the map was losing its thread.

At 2:00 we entered Parnu: parks, pastel painted old wooden building with colorful doors, onion domed churches, lanes of shops and accordion music. We bought a parking ticket (0.16 cents an hour) and strolled and listened. The buildings were nice, the faces in front of them were better - toothless smiles, crinkled eyes, weathered faces that had seen generations of war and change.

Back on the road, we headed to Lao, an off-the-beaten-track tiny town where a ferry, a small flatbed open boat, leaves for Kihnu. John kept looking at the line of cars in front of us and the ones that kept cutting the queue and repeating, "We're not going to fit!" But with Estonian packaging, we did. There we were, on board, sardines once again. "Quick pull in the side mirrors." What space wasn't occupied by metal or rubber was taken up by people. I would have enjoyed standing at the bow and watching the island slip into view, but door clearance was nonexistent. Even if it were, and I could have flattened myself enough to squeeze through the fissure-like spaces between cars, I would have seen nothing but bobbing heads.

Then the rain started, angular, pelting. Sheets of water slid off the white metal sides with every heave of the ship. Swells sent salt water crashing onto the two cars in front (FOFO, first-on-first-off, wasn't such an advantage in this case) and threw the bed of the truck next to us into such sways that I winced each time it rolled toward us. It was like being in a car wash. Nothing was visible in front of us; John made futile attempts with the wipers. I kept telling him to turn them off, we could lose them. "You know," John said, "we could have a story here. This could be our worst journey. I wonder if our Thermarest mattresses float."

But the waves diminished as we approached the island and eventually, at full speed, we pulled up to the dock. The harbor was forlorn, a leftover from the past. A discarded, rusty fishing boat slumped at a low angle in the water in front of us, old gas pumps with round dial faces sat at the edge of the road, exhausted concrete buildings, half engulfed by weeds, sat along side. The place felt abandoned in spite of the people, as if we had stepped into an emptiness. Motorcycles with old wooden side cars pulled up to greet the passengers, and, loaded, pulled onto the dirt road. We followed.

The town center was one building, a restaurant upstairs and a store down. I asked a young woman unloading hotdogs and bread from a car if she could tell us where to find the campground. Information at Parnu had told us there was a campground. "No," she said. "there is no campground. But if you come in and spend a time I will show you where you can stay. It is too complicated to tell. It is near my house." So we did. Half an hour and one large beer later we were following her old blue pickup into the trees. Yes, it would have been too complicated to tell. "Remember those barns John, and that tree and those bicycles over there. We're going to have to do this in reverse tomorrow." Through a wooden gate, into a meadow and we were told to park anywhere near the trees. It was beautiful, purple flowers hugging the ground, trees with limbs bowing to meet them, and off in the distance the ocean.