Moving On

When I was on my first trip to Alaska in 1974, I pulled my 1966 Ford Falcon window van of the SE ferry into a little waterside hamlet called Haines, where we bought some groceries and sandwiches for lunch. Now before I go on, please understand that up until that point, I was an Indiana-born-and-raised landlubber. I was infatuated with boats from an early age - particularly power boats. When I was 12, Dad took me to the north woods near Sioux Lookout, Ontario to fish for walleye and northern pike. When he asked me, "Wanna steer?" the 25-horse Evinrude, I was hooked. What was it Toad said in Wind in the Willows? "There is nothing--absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats." That has been my philosophy ever since. 

So back to Haines. I had heard of commercial fishing, but thought that enterprise died out with the steam engine. I had no idea of or connection to the rich history of the west coast commercial fisheries, and was stunned when after asking a local what all the rusty, beat-up looking boats were about, I was told,"That's the commercial fishing fleet." I had seen yachts and sailboats. Never had I seen work boats. I immediately began walking the docks looking for a job. Dressed in my farmer/hippie coveralls, camera over my shoulder and my shoulder-length red hair and scraggly beard advertising my political leanings, I never had a chance. Not one skipper looked at me twice. It was the first of two times Haines would turn me down for a job. More on that later. In my wanderings, though, I snapped a slide of Snuffy abandoned on the gravel beach near the harbor, a favorite of mine ever since. 

Time moves fast when you're not paying attention. After that trip, I went back to the midwest for one more winter. I ended up moving to Kenai, Alaska in the summer of '75, after being offered the "possibility" of a job as a reading teacher in Haines over the phone if the person they offered the position to didn't take it. I was living in Lanesville, Indiana and working across the Ohio River in Louisville as a Special Ed. teacher at the time. The spot we were in was idyllic - a three-story farmhouse on 25 acres bordering a reservoir, with chickens, garden, the whole works. It was a tough decision, but I finally decided that I "couldn't not go," if the position was offered. It wasn't, but when Kenai called to offer a job three weeks later, the decision was clear. I was moving north. Just for a little while, to check it out.

I stayed 23 years. Divorced, remarried (it stuck this time), raised two kids, became a commercial fisherman, taught Special Ed, English, journalism, yearbook, photography, drama. Left. All in the blink of an eye.

Another two blinks and I'm here, in Olympia, retired, writing, still photographing, living on the periphery of the fishing industry, spending time remembering and writing about things like that day in Haines. Writing this blog. All this is to say, things change. Sometimes they change right in front of you, while you watch. Day-by-day Snuffy rotted, broke apart, maybe someone came and chainsawed off her cabin as a playhouse for their kids, the kids grew up and left, and one day the last plank slipped off the beach with the outgoing tide. You passed it each day, never noticing, or maybe every now and then wondering when it got to the point it was until it was gone, never thinking about it again until someone posted a photo on Facebook and you nodded your head, saying, "I knew that boat." And the twenty or thirty or fuck me, forty  years that are behind you feel suddenly like they are sitting right there next to you, just out of reach.

Like this blog. It feels like an old friend I don't want to leave behind. But Gillet Dreams is just migrating to a new rendition. Fiberglass instead of a wood hull. Maybe I'll return and poke around here again. For now, look for me to write on Gillnet Dreams version two. If you're subscriber to this one, you can sign up on the RSS Feed to be notified of my posts and follow me over there. Or you can just follow me on FB or Twitter, and you'll be notified every time I post, which isn't really all that much (though I do sometimes challenge myself to a poem-a-day for a month). I look forward to seeing you on that new beach.

Jessica

I found a piece of writing yesterday that I wrote a little over a year ago. I wish I hadn't found it; wish I had never had to write it. But it didn't care. As I read it again this morning, it was just as fresh as it was the day I wrote it. I wonder of that will ever change...

For Jess, Jan. 2, 2012

I don’t want to forget yesterday. It was clear and chilly when I woke up, and it warmed into a beautiful winter’s day – the kind you feel you have to get outside and enjoy, especially here in rainy western Washington. It was the first day of 2012, and the sky was bright outside my window as I made my coffee and let the dogs out into the early morning sunshine. I took my cup and opened the blinds before sitting down at my computer.

Then I read the news. You, with your sky-blue eyes, long blonde hair and wonderful smile, were killed in a car crash along a country road near your hometown. I hadn’t known you were even home, it’d been so long since we talked. As the details filtered in through posts on Facebook with your friends and family, I learned you and the three people you were with had taken a turn too fast and slammed into a tree in the early morning hours after New Year’s. I try not to imagine what that was like. At least, I think in my desperate attempts at putting it together so I can deal with it, it was fast.

I sat in front of my computer for most of the morning, sifting through the facts of your death and finding out about your life and the parts I’ve missed over the past six months or so since we last had coffee at Starbuck’s. I browsed your pictures on Facebook and reread our posts to each other about the books I gave you on life and death and what it all means. The messages were still so fresh, I couldn’t connect the words with the fact that you aren’t here any more. That there would be no more posts or messages. I even opened up the chat window just to check. Your name was there...the green dot beside it wasn’t.

I read until I couldn’t take it any more and had to leave to go out into the bright sunshine and walk my dogs around the lake. Seagulls called your name over our heads as we walked. I kept thinking that you died on a beautiful day. Except that’s not true. You never got to see it. It was night when that truck hit that tree. And I try not to think about what your sky-blue eyes saw last.

I stood in the grocery store after the walk, trying to locate the brand of cereal I wanted. Not finding it, I felt this hole open around me of something else I couldn’t find, and there in the bright florescence of Safeway, I felt alone, sad and afraid. I miss you, and I can’t reconcile the ledger of all the time that passed that I didn’t see you with the depth of this hurt. Maybe it’s the curse of being a teacher – that we care for our students, but only get a short while with them - four years if we’re lucky - of counseling, laughing, coaching and watching them grow– and then it’s over, they’re on with their lives, and we are left behind. And as your former teacher - and I’m speaking to my students now - I take comfort in the fact that, even though you are gone from my classroom and my life, I know you are still on the planet, still walking around, breathing, learning, growing, living. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

But Jessica, what I can’t get used to is that even though nothing has changed in my routine of not seeing you each day, everything has changed and you are not in Centralia, in Eugene, traveling the country with Adam, or in Portland any more. No more coffee at Starbuck’s. As James Taylor said, “I always thought that I’d see you again.”

I left the store, not having found the cereal, my hands empty.

I will go to your service in a week or two. And I will see all the people you left behind who loved you, some of whom I care for like you. And I’m sure I will cry. I’ll cry for you, I’ll cry for me and I’ll cry for them... for all of us who don’t get to see you any more, ever. You were only 22, and you’d done so much and touched so many. We will all cry and hug and miss you as we remember.

I sure hope it’s a sunny day.