Belly of the Whale

Gains and losses

The weather has altered but a hair.
It’s blowing and howling, chasing itself in circles. All my desire and attempts to get out and back north to Orcas Island have been thwarted.

I’ve read a good deal, finished up my odds and ends. All that remains is to epoxy two pins for my autopilot mount to be finished.
And then two things happened simultaniously:

My friend Dawn walked up and told me she was house sitting for some older folk. Having lived on boats herself, she knows how nice it is to get off, to cook in a real kitchen, take a long shower, sleep in a fluffy bed, even watch tv.
So she asked me to come and stay a night.

For a moment I was torn. I was about to finish that epoxy job. I was concidering cursing Posiden like Odysseus and taking to the water the next morning and going, going, going until I arrived at Orcas, even if I had to sail south around the globe, and hence arriving from the north. If I finished the job I could leave early.

Then Heath walked up. I figured he was just passing by or something. As we started talking he said that he and Ty were heading to Mt Baker to go skiing tomorrow and if I wanted to go up with them.
The idea grew slowly from a kernel at first, then erupted like a split atom. SKIING!! Damn right.

The weather, horrendous for sailing, would be dumping snow at altitude. Winter had arrived at last. (This year went from fall straight to spring, and now to winter.)
Of course I’d go. Both.
Tonight I’d go with Dawn, cook a good meal, enjoy some great conversation. Tomorrow I’d finish up and pack my skis.

And so it was.
Thursday night we arrived in Bellingham. The snow was falling, has been falling, still is falling at Baker.
It was heavy, but incredible.
In the morning was some of the worst I’ve ever skiied in my life—heavy powder is my worst, plus we had no visibility—everything was white without contrast. Terrible for me. In the afternoon though, after following and imitating a far superior skier, I had a great breakthrough.
At last I started linking some steep choppy-snow alpine turns, using good pole plants. I’ve never really done it well in steep snow or choppy powder.
But I started getting it.
I skiied so much better in the afternoon—really had a good time, screamed out with pleasure.
It was still dumping when we called it a day.

This is where a bit of tragedy and destiny intervened.
I don’t like to lock things up. I am very trusting. At Snowbowl in Montana, everyone leaves all their things in cubbyholes, unlocked. This is the way it is.
I figured I’d do the same at Baker.

When I came back, my coat was gone. It was an old sacred coat. It was covered with epoxy and cauking stains. It is stitched; the logos are inked out; the zipper has been sowed—It is my coat. It ain’t worth much to anyone else.
All the same, someone else decided they wanted it. I hope they need it.
The coat was old, and I wore it every single day. It will be missed and I am not sure how to fill its spot in my life.
Alas.
Moving on.

On the way back to the Keystone ferry, the ferry that would take us south to Port Townsend, I could look out west and see Orcas Island in the distance.
If the boys dropped me off in Anacortes, there I could catch a ferry to Orcas. Later, to get back to P.T. I could catch a bus or thumb south to the Keystone Ferry and be home. No big deal.
I could go to Orcas. Why not? The weather was still bad. I couldn’t sail. Work was slow. Why not go now?

Well, I did.
Now I sit in the Orcas Island Library, a beautiful new-looking library. It’s Saturday and there are fifteen locals outside weeding and cleaning the Library park gardens. It is a wonderful place here.
Carmel told me that her father had read in the Tarot that I wouldn’t be back here for months—no wonder it was so hard to get here. I had to fight against the currents (and winds) of the universe to arrive.
But it meant a lot. Now I am here.
What will it bring??

It is amazing, and the experience is like a leaf in the tide: it all feels inevitable, like it couldn’t be otherwise. Synchronicity is everywhere now, beautiful little treats of fate.
I am going slow, not wanting to miss the fine details of moments that, in the end, become touchtones. The beginnings are so fragile, yet so vital and......what word suits??
Think of your own beginnings. Aren’t theys special in so many ways? Wouldn’t you love to replay them, relive them slowly.
The learning of another’s soul, the opening of their story, their life, family, background—the stories that fill in the secrets of her eyes, the mysteries of her laugh, all slowly become integrated in such a larger experince.
Wow, what times as these.