When you leave the boat you’ve called home for the past three months, you will need two dock carts. Ridiculous as clowns spilling from a tiny car, bulging backpacks emerge from the corners of your 7 by 2 by 2 ½ foot bunk, the one space here that was solely yours. Gather the ragged sweatshirt that served yet another season, the pocket knife you thought lost, the barely used Irish Spring and coconut shampoo. Gather the books and socks – so many books and socks! – the Red Dwarf DVDs, the granola bars nobody else on board liked. Gather vacuum packed portions of coho, pristine fillets to feed your family through the winter. When all of these things are loaded into the Subaru, stand before your shipmates and gather your words.
You will want to thank your captain, but won’t know where to begin. Do you begin at the beginning, with the seven year old boy who grew into this graying man who still calls you Sis? Or do you praise the conscientious skipper who woke in the middle of blustery nights to ensure the anchor held fast and avoided those grasping rocks where the ocean was too thin? At sea, you and this man share a language of flicked glances and raised eyebrows. Now you wonder where the summer went and wish you’d used more words while you had the chance.
You will want to apologize to your crewmate, wishing you could erase the times you were impatient, distant. Wishing you’d laughed at more of his jokes. Not for the first time, wonder what’s wrong with you, that even after going into this season knowing what a bad shipmate you’d been in years past, you still didn’t behave any better.
But your friends are tired and you are tired and you don’t have strength or grace enough to find any of these words. Gather hugs instead, your face crammed tight against broad chests, and tell them you love them. They are smart men who know you well; trust that now, as in all summer, they hear everything you don’t say.
Driving home, recall your mom’s assurances to your teenaged self: “If you can drive a boat, you can drive a car!” These days you do both of these things, but as rubber rockets over asphalt, no opposing current or wind muffling your commands, you don’t see any comparison between the two. Thirty-five miles per hour feels impossibly fast, reckless.
Your return coincides with your sweetheart’s absence, a long-anticipated trip to the Canadian Rockies. Eager as you are to reunite, you enter the empty house with relief. (Empty, that is, except for the talkative cat who twines herself around your ankles.) This is the first time you have been alone, truly alone, for months. The season crashes over you — record-setting salmon runs, 48 hour turn-arounds between 16 day trips, the weary push/pull of missing your partner, your boat, while being grateful for your cohorts – and you are dowsed with exhaustion.
When you open your eyes the next morning, you’ll lie immobile. Bedding crushes you against the king-sized pillowtop, the billowing layers of flannel and fleece oppressive after all this time spent in a sleeping bag. Stare at a ceiling that is not inches from your face, trying to identify the discomfort you feel. Realize you still occupy the same position that you fell asleep in eight hours ago. Your bed hasn’t pitched you hither and yon, the sea’s restless night ensuring your own.
As you prepare to leave the house, hesitate at the door. Remember you’re Down South now, in a fishing town no longer, and return to the bathroom. Reach for eye liner, mascara, ironing your furrowed brow with an irritated finger. Slide steel spirals into your ears, jangly jewelry that’s not safe on a boat. Study the woman in the mirror. Wonder who she is.
The grocery store will overwhelm you. Wander the aisles with an empty basket on your arm, hopelessly lost in options. You haven’t planned or prepared a meal all summer; your biggest task has been to finish cleaning the fish in front of you when your captain calls you in to eat, peel off your rainpants and bloody gloves to receive a steaming bowl of oatmeal, a small mountain of curry. Realize you have no idea how to feed yourself. Text your shipmates that the grocery story is freaking you out. Finally, more out of compulsion than conviction, select a carton of orange juice, rice crackers, granola, and Greek yogurt. Pay $15.27 for four items that would have cost over $22 in Sitka.
You will be further overwhelmed by the abrupt anonymity. You will feel the presence of every one of this city’s 82,000 residents, hordes of people everywhere you look and not one a familiar face. When you flee back to solitude, 35 no longer feels too fast.
In the silence of your house, you will hear distant ringing. This is yours to keep, a permanent souvenir from months living with the generator’s ‘round-the-clock relentless growl. Notice that your back is stiff as you shuffle from room to room. Understand that this ache is not from the work of fishing, but the absence of work. Your body protests unyielding surfaces – the floor that doesn’t shift beneath your feet, the seat you don’t sway in. This motionless world jars you. After a summer marred by only one lumpy September afternoon of seasickness, you are landsick your first day ashore.
Coming from a 46-foot boat where you forever jostled elbows and shoulders with your companions, the house’s high ceilings and open floor plan feel gluttonous. Last night you didn’t even go downstairs, unable to stomach the stimuli of two stories. But now you drift through rooms, picking things up, placing them down again. With each item comes a memory – the cloth you bartered for in a Tunisian souk, the Gatorade bottle filled with Sitka Sound, every card and photo you sent from Alaska covering the face of the ‘fridge – and with each memory the knot in your chest loosens.
Your sweetheart has left a treasure trail of rhyming love notes though the house. As you follow the clues through the kitchen (fully loaded coffee pot, English muffins, Adams chunky peanut butter), the bedroom (rainbow striped socks, socks with crows, socks with cats), and the bathroom (clean towels, fresh soap), you will begin to remember that within these walls lies the non-boat home that you and your sweetheart have created together. This space is expansive not to contain Stuff, but love.
Finally, armed with a cup of coffee, you will enter your writing room. Smile at the inspirational trinkets in the windowsill, the sagging bookshelves, the bulletin board studded with photos, quotes, and cards. Facing the butcher paper-plastered wall, study your book’s outline. A final note of encouragement waits in the center of your desk, accompanied by chocolate. You will tear up as you read it, support so explicit it leaves you weak in the knees, fumbling for the chair. Once seated, you will pick up the black Uni-ball pen you inadvertently stole from the boat, and begin.
I sometimes think that the writers/essays/poems that have most moved us are hovering somewhere over our shoulder as we write a particular piece, a sort of divine literary presence we may not be conscious of until after the fact. That was the case with this one. It wasn’t until after posting this piece that I realized how obviously I’d channeled two of my favorite Fisher Poets, Toby Sullivan and Moe Bowstern. Toby wrote a piece called “Things You Will Need,” and perhaps a few years later, Moe wrote one called, “Things That Will Be Difficult,” which she credited Toby with inspiring. Both Toby and Moe are tremendous writers and humans; you can hear them read their essays on the In The Tote site. Please do.
Listen to “Things You Will Need,” by Toby Sullivan
Listen to “Things That Will Be Difficult,” by Moe Bowstern
Apart from sharing some photos on Twitter, friends, this season was my worst for keeping in touch. You’ve been in my thoughts – I’ve missed you! How are you? For the bloggers among you, I’m terribly out of touch with everyone’s work. Got a favorite summer post you could link to here? I’d love at least a glimpse into what you’ve been writing.
“support so explicit it leaves you weak in the knees”
lovely post, Tele… and welcome back!
Well, hello! How lovely to have you kick off the conversation here. I see you’ve got a fancy new layout on your site (maybe it’s not new anymore? anyway, I like it!) Hope you had a wonderful summer and all’s good for you, friend.
Beautiful post and writing. Very evocative description of the work and experience. I spent a season on a seiner many years ago right out of high school and what you wrote still resonates. This year we spent the summer in SE on our 27 foot sailboat, we didn’t work hard like you but we did make it to Sitka so that felt familiar too. Do you know the memoir “Eating Dirt by Charlotte Gill? If not, I am sure you would like it.
Todd Miller
Thanks for introducing yourself, Todd — I’m glad you’re here. Amazing what a powerful influence the ocean can have on us, how many decades that gentle rocking continues somewhere inside of us. I’d love to hear more about your sailing adventures; my friend Mike has a 27′ sailboat also (Olympic Mist) that he sailed up to Sitka from Port Angeles. Hope you had a wonderful time.
Another blog you might enjoy: http://sailingsarita.blogspot.com/
Mike met this family in Warm Springs. They were tremendously kind to him, and then I was lucky to meet them when they came through Sitka. (A hook especially for you: they’ve got a microscope on board.)
I didn’t know about Eating Dirt, but thanks for the share! Sounds great, and I can think of another few friends who it sounds like a good fit for, too.
[For the rest of you: http://charlottegill.com/?page_id=10%5D
Lovely to have you here, Todd.
I’m re-reading The Shipping News which made me think of y’all. Delighted to read this culture shock/re-entry post.
What a good idea for a re-read, Chris. I feel like I must have read it, but am afraid it was one of those that I read too early, too young. Time for another go. We listened to a lot of audio books on the boat this summer, and the first one was Brokeback Mountain. Hard to hear it without having the film in mind, but such beautifully sparse language.
What a beautiful return to the blogosphere! I missed you.
While you were out, I took a stand against aversive dog training methods: http://t.co/2MU1xzo03u
Kari, that is a great post — I’m so glad that you linked it so I could catch up. I can see your community growing in the conversation that followed (nice work!) and — as you know — I can so relate to that struggle of when to keep my mouth shut and when to speak up. You stood by your experience, and that’s valuable.
Welcome back.….….…Happy Equinox.
And to you, too, Ms. Vicky! I imagine you had a beautiful island summer…
Hi Tele,
It’s me, Ashley’s friend 🙂 Welcome back!
I was just debating what to read before going to sleep. Your post was the cherry to my sundae (well, it’s Saturday, but pun intended!).
Sending you strength in multiple ways.
Hugs,
AZ & ABP (I’m sure she is)
Anila! I’m going to be offended if you keep reminding me of who you are, as “Ashley’s friend.” Aren’t you MY friend now, too? 🙂
Thanks for the kind words. (And pun! We had some good — and not so good — puns on the boat.) I notice that you didn’t answer my closing question, and that you’ve been tremendously busy with your own writing over this summer. I’m so envious of all your travels, and delighted that you take the time and effort to share them. So I’ll go ahead and share your link for others to enjoy — that last post on Istanbul was lovely. http://www.vesselinvain.com/2013/09/istanbul-turkey.html
Hugs back, my friend -
T
Hi Tele!
I’m sorry! What can I say, I’m shy 🙂
Thanks for linking! I was ready to call it night after commenting. Can’t wait to read more.
Hugs,
Me
P.S. Don’t be envious! The grass always looks greener. My nesting instincts are in full force right now even though I don’t have home. In short, I’m green of your charming home!
I tried to get a whiff of you skittering by port hardy but no! we all missed you this summer; its good your back sound and happy;
I’m not surprised you missed us, Tom — we weren’t very careful with water this trip, it being such a fast run, so all of us had showered by the time we got down around your neighborhood. (If we’d passed by at the end of our 16 day coho trip, on the other hand…) Anyway, we thought of you as we went by. Saw a boat; wondered if it could be your son’s.
We brought that last load of coho down to unload in Bellingham, so couldn’t stop in Canada, and Joel’s and my standard M.O. is to charge straight through regardless. When we were still in Sitka, another Down South captain talked about the amazing trip south he and his partner had when they intentionally planned to allow as much time as they could, just to see and experience everything that we usually blast through. If Joel and I ever manage to shift ourselves to do something similar, you and Mary will certainly be on our itinerary!
All best to you, friend.
Now Sitka misses you
Oh my… You manage to choke me up even through the interwebs. You should know that that bursting pan of berry bars was the EXACT right amount for a 4 1⁄2 day trip from Sitka to B’ham: we each polished off our final one with coffee as we passed Lummi Island. They were amazing (especially on my middle-of-the-night wheel watches. I may or may not have eaten more than my share while the boys were sleeping.)
Take good care of you; love and hugs.
Your descriptive writing has brought back a rush of memories, I can’t wait to read more. Welcome home -
Thanks, Barbara. I know this is a familiar story for you and yours. Hope you had a good first summer on Whidbey and are feeling settled in.
Teared up at first sentence. Your words, Soul Salve. Welcome home, Tele. — Pierr
Pierr! Lovely to hear from you. Hope you had a good summer yourself and that all’s well for you.
Wow, time flies fast, it does not seem like that long since we heard from you and what a wonderful welcome home! And an excellent piece of 2nd person narrative 🙂 I hope the 3 months has filled your inspiration source. Bonne Continuation!
Claire! Hello!
Thanks for the 2nd person compliment, but I can’t take too much credit here. Sometimes I think the writers/essays/poems that have been especially influential on us are hovering somewhere in the room as we write a particular piece, this sort of divine literary presence we may not be conscious of until after the fact. That was the case with this one. Wasn’t until after I’d posted it that I realized how obviously I’d been channeling two of my favorite Fisher Poets, Toby Sullivan and Moe Bowstern. Toby wrote a piece called “Things You Will Need,” and perhaps a few years later, Moe wrote a piece called, “Things That Will Be Difficult,” which she credited Toby with inspiring. They’ve both been powerful inspirations for me, and both pieces are available to listen to on the http://www.inthetote.com site.
Good to hear from you, Claire. Congratulations on all of your summer’s reading — you’ve already almost reached your 2013 goal! I didn’t get to do much reading on the boat, but we did listen to a lot of audiobooks — a new experience for me, which it turned out I loved. All best wishes to you!
Beautiful!
Thanks for being here, Liz!
cushy,isnt it? takes a while to get used to. relax into the change
Fred, I’m so glad that you introduced yourself this summer. Thanks for the walk & talk, and for your part in spawning such a remarkable human. Your daughter is one of my inspirations.
All best to you this winter; hope you enjoy your own well-deserved off-season. It’d be great to see you at Fisher Poets in February if you and your wife are able to join…
Hey Tele,
I dig the second person pov and you really capture the feeling.
Hope you’re well,
Jacob
Hey Jacob, thanks for stopping by!
The 2nd person isn’t something I’d usually mess with, but it was just the way this one wanted to be. Glad it worked for you.
Good on you for putting in such a good season with the boys. Hope you enjoy some good land adventures now!
Tele,
We met at Fisherpoets last winter. Lovely to have you back on land.
My fiancée Heather ran her Bristol Bay boat, I worked three months between herring and salmon, my longest yet — especially for the Bay. The recovery time for me was remarkable.
Thanks for the vivid images of your re-entry. Good luck with the calibration.
Sean
Sean! I don’t need any special reminders of who you and Heather are; I so enjoyed talking with you two at the Fort George, and having at least peripheral insights into your lives since. (Those engagement photos? Amazing.)
Thanks for the welcome back, and to you both, as well. You’ve been incredibly prolific on your own blog — inspiring focus and follow-through. Your Story Portal post took my breath away; I lost too many young people to suicide during my social work years, and recognize that moist-pain scab-picking that you so clearly named. Here’s to stories, and vulnerability, courage, heart.
[For the rest of you: read Sean’s post, “The Story Portal,” at http://structuredroots.wordpress.com/2013/09/05/the-story-portal/%5D
I hope we’ll cross paths again in Astoria this year… Joel and I recently reminisced about that fantastic piece you read at the on-site poetry contest.
Be well.
Love it! I, also, am always overwhelmed by grocery stores after being away on a boat. Too many options leave my head spinning. I’m looking forward to more of your stories.
Hello Tele,
This is brilliant, I have spent most of my life fishing, from the age of 6. I wont bother to post how many over 30 those years number but its been long and full. Your post resonates with a feeling we all get and smile at hearing in others. Funny these things, no matter how many years and how many returns the emersion back into “home” life is always the same.
Thank you for todays smile with my coffee.
Welcome home. I’ll be looking forward to your stories after you’ve caught your breath.
Reading your posts, always makes me eager for that finished book that is is now haunting many of your moments. Good luck with those frequent forays into your writing space (physically & emotionally), but try not to be too distant with your all of us who care so much about you.
Welcome home!!!!
Beautiful piece. Re-entry, moving between worlds some of the most poignant moments in a lifetime. Everything’s so vibrant, bigger than life, and then it fades back into the ordinary as you become accustomed to it once again. Enjoy every moment of this time out of time. So glad you’ve made the passage safely once again. Sending love.
Arrgh! Still not home, hanging on in Oregon. Still trying to get the 100/week. Price $5‑ish. Right now watching swell slowly back off. Maybe get out Wednesday.
Currently in Newport with fleet mates from every port between AK and Mexico including duct tape, thumper, pacifico, rooster and the colonel. CB is home, I think. So is Heather and red-neck russel. Other boats from Eureka, Anacortes, Brookings, CC, Poulsbo, Ilwaco… waiting for weather, one more trip or maybe three.
At one time the former owner of F/V Charity made a point of penalizing every one for saying “home” on the radio after Sept 5th. Arrgh again, the Oregon salmon season allows you to fish to halloween and they have been biting and up to now the weather has been drop dead best ever sun and fun all day. It was easy to stay on the tack then. But back to the penalty of saying home, surely it is to be compounded for the one who so gracefully describes her return and desperate need for a halfway program, the reassurance that ship mates and fleet mates share the disorientation of roads and space not smelly or moving to sleep. And too many people.
If you have not done so yet, go mushroom hunting. For me anyway, it is a terrestrial activity that soothes the fishing mind and body; a little rigorous, a little wet and dirty, you get to cut the head off of something that would have preferred to just sink back into the earth it came from… and like that rotten Jeremy, you can send the photos of your catch to running partners with taunting little statements like “hatched it again”, “head pressure way up”, “even YOU could catch these ones”.
Glad you guys got back safely!
Hi Tele:
Best of your work that I have read. I thought I was the only one who got land-sick! You have done a masterful job of examining and explaining the shift to land and free time after a long and busy troll season. Thank you.
Ian Bryce, Nanoose Bay, B.C.
MV NERKA#1
My two step-daughters have just returned from their frantic fishing summer, tanned, relaxed and maybe even a bit worn out, ready to be in a real bed, to dance on a floor that doesn’t bounce, to read a book that doesn’t rock up and down, to eat meals at a table full of family faces. I can’t quite recall how I stumbled onto your blog but am enjoying your view of life in Southeast and elsewhere. I have to agree with Joel – mushroom hunting is “grounding”, in every sense of the word. Looks to be a good season out there!
Hi Tele, Thank you for your lyrical, insightful post, which is as much about life itself as it is about fishing. I’m no fisherman, but I’ve been through some huge life changes lately and found myself identifying with your surges of emotion and disorientation with ordinary things and situations. Your post speaks to the enormous complexity of life and how we get through it through the grace of our own resilience and the support of the people who love us. Those people, as you mentioned, are often the ones who can hear and understand what we aren’t saying. Thanks so much for all you do. Love, Joanne P.S. Hope to see you at Fisher Poets this year.
A gorgeous piece, Tele. I felt like I was there with you.
I so agree about that divine literary presence speaking over our shoulder. Writers are naturally sensitive creatures, maybe maddeningly sensitive, and that little note left on your desk is pure nourishment.
http://www.girlwithanewlife2.com