I left my house on a whim at about 4 pm to catch the 4:45 Ferry across the Salish Sea. Flying downhill in the bike lane on Jackson, I could see the Sound in front of me. It was dark ahead but as I turned back, not only did I see my reflection in the ferry window, I saw my city aglow in the late daylight that pierced the clouds. That beautiful magic light always enchants me.
On the other side, the pavement was dry under my wheels, as I biked the trails and forested roads of Bainbridge Island. Early fallen samara from big leaved maple trees and some cedar speckled the shoulder.
By the time I arrived at Fay Bainbridge Park, less than an hour ride from my house, the skies had opened up. Maybe I missed the mark and misjudged the weather. I set up the tent in the rain; a deluge I haven't seen in awhile. I was drenched, but chuckling as I admired the speed at which I pitched and hoped it was a water tight as it looked. I rolled the bike up to the shelter nearby to cook dinner, tucking the stove behind the fireplace to get out of the wind.
By the time I finished dinner the rain had slowed and then stopped, rather unexpectedly. Before dark, I explored the rest of the park, the boardwalk access to the beach, and the pay station. I also noticed another shelter with a smoking chimney. I rolled the bike under cover, added another log, hung my gloves and jacket on the mantle, and fired up the stove for hot chocolate. Here I was. I sat reading by the heat and light of the serendipitous night until my eyes fell heavy and I crawled into the dry tent.
The full moon danced in and out of the clouds. Clouds dumped a few strong storms between 10 and 1 am. The rain thwaps on the tent drowned the sound of the surf and stirred me awake once. Yet, the same cloud cover kept the evening warm enough that when I went to the bathroom at 4 am I needed not my jacket, nor my socks.
When I woke again at first light, it was to sunlight, and strong sunshine. The light filtered through the blue tent wall so as to soften the pages of my heavy book. I devoured a hearty helping of pages before breakfast until I finished it.
When the tide is out the table is set. This Coast Salish expression refers to the bounty of the tide flats. Oysters, clams, and more. I spooned oatmeal down and took my tea for a walk, along smooth stones, some slick with green seaweed. Eel grass pulled in the direction of the tide. My flip flops flapped, keeping my toes from the sand. I walked the shore with my eyes on the birds. When the tide is out, the table is set for us all. The long neck and long legs of the heron reflected in the still water between rippled sand. She speared a small fish and wiggled it down. Gulls dropped shellfish from above hoping the help from physics pops them open. I couldn't pry my eyes off an Osprey, deftly diving into the sound. The eagle gave chase and I followed the Baldie back to his perch in the tree above me.
This is indeed was a feast. I was in my happy place, merely being outdoors. I was sensing the weather; watching the winged world, the shift in the tides, and the leaves as they tumbled in the breeze. I also was reading, curled into a comfortable nook on a driftwood log. I marked a line from Leath Toninos essay in the current issue of Orion magazine that I curled in my hands, "...but nowhere is the middle of nowhere. Everywhere in the middle of somewhere. Nature has no edges. That center is relentlessly here..." It reminded me that the word nowhere can also be read as now here.
Here I am. Sun warmed my cheeks as I smiled. I'm glad I came. Here I am.
As I looked up from the page I saw a seal, bobbing its puppy like head in the waters edge. "And here you are," I said with a smirk before he sank away. When I turned back to the page, I heard a fellow beach goer yell, "Whale!" and looked up in time to see her point. It was impossible to miss the dark dorsal fin that rose from the water. Then with the smaller dorsal fin close behind. I was on my feet with a roar of excitement, my hands in the air in with the triumph of being alive and here to witness. I fancied myself as loud as the Seahawks fans I heard when I got off the ferry and rode past the stadium.
Here they are! Again and again the Orcas rolled, dove down, and up again. They were close enough I heard the hiss of the blowhole. Their audible sigh called me awake, and to the edge, much like a shofar blast I missed last week during the holidays. The next thing I knew, I ran down the beach, leaping driftwood beaming, mud kicking up on my calves from my flip flops till I stood, shin deep, in the sound with them. We are in this together.
We are here now.
Orcas are icons of our place. Yet, especially this year, and especially for the local J pod, Orcas remind us of where we've missed the mark. Tahlequah is the mother who carried her deceased baby orca around the Salish Sea for 17 days in a historically unprecedented and incredibly moving ritual of grief. When the baby would fall her mother would nose dive and reach down to bring her dead calf’s body back to the surface. Another calf in her pod, Scarlet, has died from starvation.
I thought of those two dead Orcas as two, and now a third, surfaced in front of me again. Those in view, so close to my city, gave me hope. They invite me to smile, dance, and delight in being present. They ask me to think where I've missed the mark, to think about what burden or grief I've been carrying around, and to consider what I need to nourish me in the year to come, and what can I let go of?
In what feels like the middle of nowhere, they remind me to be here now.
*from http://www.endangered.org/memorial-for-tahlequahs-baby-and-j50-first-we-mourn-then-we-organize/
* more: https://www.seattletimes.com/seattle-news/environment/orca-j50-declared-dead-after-search-southern-residents-down-to-74-whales/
