Ch. 1 A Rude Awakening
I had arrived at a time in my life of which I had long time forgotten. It was my own "u-catastrophe" as Tolkien explained the phenomenon. Rudely ousted from a job of thirty years, I had lived --strike that. I had existed in the proverbial tempest in a teapot for the last seven. Meaning. Purpose. Friends. Family. All those things were cast into question. For a time I struggled with the loss of those "things" like anyone else would have. However, a slow crescendo of realization eventually extruded me through the threshold only to find that, once on the other side, you realize that you can't really lose what had never really existed. The willful suspension of unbelief is short lived.
My wife had returned to college after the kids had grown and moved out. In a half hearted jest I remember her once recounting in the car that one of her teachers had mentioned in a meeting that his dream was to move out into the deep woods, miles from everybody or everything, not knowing exactly what he would find there. She had shouted out the answer, "My husband!" Funny how things like that have a way coming full circle.
In the process of returning to the land of the living I decided to do just what the ex's teacher friend had only dreamed about. Moving cross-continent and out of country I came to rest at ocean's edge, "miles from anybody or anything."
They say that hindsight is 20/20. I only know now, looking back on it all, that I would have never, on my own, severed myself from that life draining leach of a job. Divine providence intervening? Who knows the source of our course through life? All I know is that I was now finally able to move forward; one step at a time; one day at a time. That the life of scratching out a living, seeing that everyone else was cared for (everyone except for me) had, in the end, institutionalized me without my even being cognizant of it. For half of those thirty years I had become the great slayer of fire breathing dragons, a savior to all those who refused to crack a manual. In that delusional world I delighted in the fact that my job provided me with a respectful answer when asked, as men are always apt to do, "So, what do you do?" But like the ever-faithful party in a good marriage gone bad, I had to be handed a writ of divorce before awaking out of my shadow land.
It was five and twenty past the hour, as me mum was once so fond of putting it. The moon was nearing the end of its last quarter as clearly witnessed just off to my left. The air was warm but no longer still. A gentle off shore breeze had been picking up steadily as the day waned. Old but not yet quite dead, my consciousness was reminding me of a soon-to-come rain now mingling its scent with that of salty seawater. Murphy, the local television weatherman, had predicted it the night before. However, of late his wayward predictions had fallen on deaf ears -fool me once, shame on you. A single frayed ribbon of white silk slithered across the darkening western sky from north to south. I was being warned to call it a night, play it safe and begin to head my way back to camp.
Fear of wind or waves were things of forgotten memory. For twenty years I had paddled deserted waters almost always alone. I had grown comfortable with it. Open water kayakers remained a rare breed. Even now, with all the high tech companies spitting out milk carton shells as fast as Detroit spit out milk carton caskets, to greet a fellow paddler out on the open water remained an uncommon occurrence. Yet despite the years and the experiences of time, there were still two things that frightened the hell out of me. The first was large ocean going vessels. The second? Lightning.
I had setup camp on a lonely crag that looked out over a small, narrow inlet. Beneath the ridge was the only patch of sand I had seen in nearly seven hours of paddling. Maps would have been wise but I was ever the optimist. From the wreckage of driftwood, I knew that setting up camp on that little inlet beach was a fools nightmare. Somewhere I had once read magazine stories of night time terror as campsites washed out to sea. I had no interest in writing my own tale of whoa. Earlier, in the warm and bright noon day sun, I found and followed a rocky path which led me to the summit above. It didn't take long for me to realize that I had found my base camp for the long weekend away from all signs of humanity.
A well rehearsed routine. I had my kayak unpacked, my tent pitched amidst a thick mat of pine needles, firewood gathered, and enough pine cones and grass for kindling to last me for much longer than my intended stay. I had purposefully set my tent as close to the rocky crag's edge as possible, set between two trees which set their roots deep into rock and sand. They had withstood many tests of shoreline storms. I was sure they would last one more weekend. No camper could not have hoped for more. High and dry, the storms of life could beat themselves silly against the rocks below while I in my cap would sit comfortably sipping tea above.
Once the tent had been raised, next came tying off of a line between the trees over which one of two tarps packed for the journey was cast over and tied off. Double protection during off shore cloud bursts had been a necessity learned the hard way only the year prior. A second line was tied between two more trees just off to side of my tent. It served the purpose of protecting the makeshift kitchen and a much needed dry wood storage area.
My little protected and secluded cove and camp was roughly twenty miles from the nearest human being. Out here, it would be just me, God's canopy of stars and my sparkling seaside fire for four relaxing days. Only briefly did I pause to gather in the serenity of lofty wind sculptured trees and the sound of surf below, while watching a bright but an all too soon to set sun stationing itself over and behind one of the many gulf shore islands opposite my little sandy bay. It was Friday. The camp had been struck. All provisions were provided and accounted for. I had secured an eight hour lamp to a tree which hung precariously out over the ridge of my chosen campsite.
All that was two hours ago. It was a paddling holiday. Even after spending seven hours paddling to arrive at my little hideaway and another hour and a half to set everything up, I had made my way back down to the slender ribbon of sand below before slithering back into my stiletto of blue and white fiberglass and launching myself back out into the open waters for a bit of reconnaissance and a whole lot of adventure. If my luck continued to hold, I might even land something worthy for my dinner. But first came fun and then (hopefully) came fish.
And so it was that I now found myself out in the middle of a lost world ocean as the sun slowly began to sink behind the long line of wooded isles not more than three, maybe four miles off from shore. I set out to visit the nearest of islands while there was still enough light of day to see the hidden reefs as I got closer to their shores. Being alone in that big ocean give me little concern for the swells were small and the forecast predicted no great monsoons.
Wandering where my paddles would lead me, I put myself close to yet another rocky shoreline. It was in the ebbing light of my first day of utter solitude that I caught the occasional glimpses of florescent orange, day-glow green and mellow yellows beneath the slow gliding boat. "The ocean is a desert with its life underground," came to mind.
I watched pink clouds in the west turn into shades of red and purple as I aimed myself back toward the mainland and into a bay which I estimated a mere mile to the north of my own little cove and sandy beach. I was sure that long after sunset there would be enough light left to let me paddle the shoreline until till catching sight of my eight hour flashing lighthouse hanging out over camp's edge.
The rhythmic chime of the buoy outside the bay's inlet led me to believe this was what the locals referred to as Witch Candle Bay. It was a narrow bay that ran far enough back inland to have a bridge erected across it at woods edge. The cast iron and rivets bridge was a product of depression era money and craftsmanship. It now was left setting on a lonely stretch of road which came from and went to nowhere. I imagined it hadn't seen a traveler in months. I was sure that its original intent had been to ease the harvesting, or should I say slaughtering, of virgin wood. But of course, that purpose had waned long ago.
I stretched out a bungee cord and fixed myself to an exposed bit of re-bar on the third and middle most foundation pillar of the bridge. It was time to catch my supper. Rock cod had long been the staple I had grown use to in this area but occasionally, when luck was with me, my line would sing salmon. "One of those would do me kindly," I petitioned the great Fisherman in the sky.
Tied up this far back into the bay, the sounds of ocean were distant and faint. I was enjoying the quiet calm about everything when a sudden rip of line sang out. Sitting back up right, I soon realized that even though I was reeling furiously, the line was still spooling out. Resetting the drag, the tip of my pole strained as I began to fight for my supper.
Born and raised in the midwest, I had grown accustomed to having only a very small list of possibilities of what could be expected on the other end of one's line. But northwestern salt water possibilities were positively daunting.
My rig was small as just about everything packed into a kayak had to be. Strung with twenty pound test and no leader, I had no longing for some big time catch. Three hundred pound flounders were not a kayaker's cup of tea. If I couldn't get it in with what I had, I didn't want it. Living the simple life meant just that.
In less than ten minutes, I had a nice ten or twelve pound salmon pulled up along side of my boat. It was larger than my net but some how I managed to get in underneath it and pulled up on top of my spray skirt. Quickly, with knife in hand, I cut the line, broke the tackle down and stored it behind me. An exhausted, dark glassy eye stared back up at me. I would be merciful, making the end of its life as quick and painless as possible. Two filets for me, the remainder sacrificed to the gods of the sea. And that's what would have happened if the sounds of that peaceful silence had not been suddenly violated.
It had the deep rumble of an American V-8 to it. Big block, I thought. Five would get you ten that is was a pick-up truck. They were staple in these parts of the world. It was well tuned and had the guttural rumble of custom exhaust. That was not so likely in these parts.
