Cap’n J and I have been back in Sit­ka for a month now, bliss­ing out on the pre-tourist calm. This is some­thing I love about being up here ear­ly. Sea­son­al work­ers (yeah, like us) and vis­i­tors are a mere trick­le in spring, rather than the flood of sum­mer. Like bears snuf­fling their way out of hiber­na­tion, locals blink hap­pi­ly at the length­en­ing days, jok­ing eas­i­ly, relieved to have slipped through winter’s clam­my fingers.

Sitkans know how to stay busy. Com­mu­ni­ty events cel­e­brate all man­ner of tal­ent, and we’ve kept a full cal­en­dar since our return. The Sit­ka Film Soci­ety brought Salaam Dunk to town, a great film about an Iraqi girls’ bas­ket­ball team. Per­former Gene Taga­ban shared a pow­er­ful evening of sto­ries, music and dance. There was the Month­ly Grind – a com­mu­ni­ty-wide vari­ety show that runs Octo­ber-April – and an evening of live sto­ry­telling at the Lark­spur Café.

All these things, and we even man­aged to go fish­ing. The Ner­ka spent 10 days away from the dock, as we tried our hand at win­ter king trolling. April’s ocean con­di­tions are noto­ri­ous­ly fick­le; only weeks ear­li­er, a friend awoke to his deck piled with snow, an icy skin on the water. Braced for the worst, we got the fan­ta­sy instead, re-enter­ing our work life with flat calm water, gor­geous sun­ris­es, and the occa­sion­al king salmon. Not even Bear could com­plain, sprawled on her bunk in a sun­beam. (Though she did get sea­sick when we first left the dock. Noth­ing like a glassy-eyed, mouth-foam­ing cat to make you feel like a ter­ri­ble parent.)

Bear’s kind of fishin’: flat seas and sunny.

We’d have hap­pi­ly con­tin­ued drag­ging our hooks around, but by the mid­dle of this month, it was time to scrub the Ner­ka clean and switch gears. We’re jump­ing ship to long­line on a friend’s boat, hop­ing to head out this week. Slow­ly pro­gress­ing towards being ready, we spent much of Sun­day load­ing hal­ibut gear aboard. (The boat sat notice­ably low­er in the water, her nose sniff­ing the sky, after we were done.)

We’re here to make a liv­ing, I know, but I’m also hun­gry to make a life in Sit­ka. Every day, yet anoth­er fly­er is tacked to the Back­door Café’s bul­letin board, pro­mot­ing yet anoth­er tempt­ing event. This week is no exception.

Mon­day was World Book Night, and Sitka’s unique method of spread­ing lit­er­ary love earned a nation­al shout-out in USA Today.

Isabel­la Brady will be hon­ored on Tues­day evening, first with Alas­ka Native Sis­ter­hood ser­vices (5 pm, ANB Hall), fol­lowed by cul­tur­al ser­vices that will con­tin­ue late into the night (7 pm, Sheet’­ka Kwaan Naa Kahidi).

Wednes­day marks a dif­fer­ent hon­or­ing, as Sitka’s Fish to Schools pro­gram is rec­og­nized as Alaska’s 2011 – 2012 Best Farm to Schools Pro­gram. Only on its sec­ond year, Fish to Schools con­nects local schools with local seafood. If you’re in Sit­ka, din­ner is a not-to-be-missed meal by Ludvig’s Colette Nel­son. Oth­er­wise, you can still sup­port Fish to Schools here.

On Thurs­day, com­mu­ni­ty orga­niz­er Lako­ta Hard­en will lead a work­shop, “Allies for Youth,” train­ing adults to ally with youth for social change and devel­op­ing lead­ers for the next gen­er­a­tion. (9 am-noon; RSVP with Bri­an Sparks, 907.747.3370.) This one’s dear to my heart: my non-fish­ing path was as a social work­er with Seattle’s home­less youth. While I can’t give up this life at sea, I miss social jus­tice work, cul­tur­al con­ver­sa­tions, the ener­gy and resilience of young people.

But as I heard so often as a teenag­er, “We are here to catch fish and make mon­ey,” and you can’t catch fish if your hooks aren’t in the water. Giv­en a self-sus­tain­ing bank account and no anx­ious skip­pers, I’d glad­ly sign my time over to all of these events, and more – expe­ri­ence assures me that Thursday’s tempt­ing event will be fol­lowed by some­thing equal­ly fas­ci­nat­ing on Fri­day, then Sat­ur­day, and on and on. The thing about fish­ing for a liv­ing is that – even­tu­al­ly – you have to leave the dock.

All this makes me curi­ous… Is our lit­tle island town of 9000 spe­cial (well, yes), or are oth­er com­mu­ni­ties equal­ly rich with goings-on? With Hooked’s friends spread across such diverse geog­ra­phy, I won­der what it’s like where you live. Do you feel very con­nect­ed to your com­mu­ni­ty events? Which ones? How do you hear about them?