I have always resented that jarring, unattractive name, for years ago, when I first plied paddle across the gunwale of a light little canoe, and idled about its margin, I named the sheltered little cove the Lost Lagoon.
As she was looking out over the little bay, she remembered the time when as a little girl of six she had climbed up into the rowboat and rowed out into the bay alone.
The place where they embarked was a little bight or circular bay, and the boat cut across a much larger bay toward a distant headland where the caves were located, right at the water's edge.
About 20 miles off the coast here, this little cove is a rocky outcrop that is claimed by both the United States and Canada, the one territorial dispute between these two neighboring countries.
To areas, you know, where they felt safe to pull their ships into coves and harbors and places where at nighttime they didn't have to be out in the water.
In this little bay a single wild duck was swimming and diving and preening her feathers, disporting herself very happily in the flickering light and shade.