Belly of the Whale

The Sproutings of a Sappy Love Story.


Love stories are certainly not my genre, but what am I to do? Relationships happen; we meet people, some of whom we turn to feel strongly for. This is a story of how I came to meet, know, and adore a girl named Carmel.

I think it was a month ago today, now the 7th of April, a couple of friends and I had sailed for Orcas Island in the San Juans fifteen miles north of Port Townsend. We reached the island in the afternoon, inflated the dinghy and went ashore to find Dustin a toothbrush and some food for supper. By circuitous ways we found ourselves in Callalo’s Restaurant for dinner with the promise of an open-mic night at eight pm. We ate and slowly slouched into our chairs as the two days of sailing began to takes its toll on us. Dustin fell asleep as the first diva started to play on her guitar.
The closer we were to leaving the more the bar filled with ladies, ladies of all ages. It was dazzling in relation to the size of the island. This was a small island after all. I remember a blond woman who got up to sing—I didn’t remember her name at the time—but her name was Carmel. She sang Joni Mitchell in ocapelo, sang a Bob Marley song as she strummed the guitar.
I am not a good sedentary listener of live music. Here I was on this N.W. island, good music playing, people all over—I really wanted to dance. The music wasn’t ideal—I like bluegrass—and there wasn’t much of a dance floor to speak of. But all this was about to change. The next group to take the stage was a fiddle player and a guy with a “strung washtub,” CCR style. They were boot-stompers. People in the back started moving about. I couldn’t stand it. A girl was sitting with us, and she refused to dance with me. I tried her a couple of times, no going.
There was a problem: there really wasn’t any place to dance. I went to the restroom. As I came back, I saw Dustin get up and ask some people, “Hey, can we move this table so people can dance?” The stranger takes charge! Everybody was like, “No problem, man, Go for it.”
Ah, my time has come, I thought. I looked around to my right. There I saw a blond lady with shining eyes swaying as if she liked to dance. I asked her. She jumped at the chance without a thought. (Asking someone to dance still as the ability to make me a bit nervous.)
We were the first to take to the floor, and, as it would be, the only ones to take the floor. We had all the space in the world; we had good music—and Carmel was certainly no laggard. She followed easily. What she didn’t catch the first time, she caught the second. She danced with such pleasure, relaxed not too serious or nervous, not trying to hard to do it right. No, she smiled and moved around the floor, kicking her feet up, laughing, smiling at me as we went. It was a raucous good time.
People cheered and clapped. The guys played one more for us. I realized I was about to fall on the floor with exhaustion. I needed water! I was wearing my heavy wool pants and tall rubber fishing boots. Sweet dripped from my temples. Carmel was flushed too, but with a joyous smile under her eyes. I told her we’d slow the next one down a bit. That would be fine, she said.

I actually did fall to the ground (on my knees) after our last dance. My god, I love to dance to bluegrass. I was bushed. Carmel danced it so well even though she said she hadn’t danced that way before. People came up to me and smiled and shook my hand. The open-mic was over. Time to head home to the boat. That’s all I was really thinking about. My body was through for the day. Then this guy named Kelly came up to me and introduced himself. He thought our dancing was terrific. (Clearly has seen much bluegrass dancing!) He asked me where I was from, yadda, yadda. Then he said that he was a good friend of Carmel’s, who walked up just then, and they were going to go to Kelly’s for a drink—just the two of them—and asked if I’d like to join them.
Tired as I was, I was able to note that Kelly was gay and appeared to be trying to set me up with Carmel. But I couldn’t see how it would work. I was with two other guys and had to make it back to my boat. (My dinghy was parked only a few houses away from Kelly’s.) I told them I wasn’t sure of whether I would make it—maybe. That was the best I could manage. I said thanks for the dance and goodbye.
In the meantime, Dustin had been talking to a girl named Becca and she was going to give us a ride back to the dinghy. As we hopped in the car she mentioned that she had a couch, and if anyone wanted a spot they could have it. My other mate, Kenny, jumped on that. As we drove toward the dinghy, we stopped to talk to a friend of Becca’s who decided to come over for a drink.
Now, at last, I started to formulate a plan: ”Dustin, you all go. Just stay at Becca’s. I’ll pick you up in the morning.” Two guys, two girls—seemed a great place for us to part. They complained, “come on, come on,” but I was resolute. When they sped off I walked up the road to Kelly’s house.
But of course, I didn’t tell Carmel I’d actually show up—so she didn’t either. She had gone home because she had to wake up and landscape in the morning. Kelly got out a whopping plate of leftover pot roast for me and some of Carmel’s wine. I ate large—and I wasn’t even particularly hungry.
Kelly got Carmel on the phone for me. Kelly tried to rouse her from her bed but wasn’t successful. I just wanted to talk: who was this girl? I could feel that she was interested in me, saw something in me. This, frankly, is rare. What is more, I felt the same way. I’m not sure why. She was attractive, a great dancer, but even then, all I could clearly remember of her were her eyes. Her eyes were deep and wonderful; they suggested many lifetimes of experiences; they were mysterious and childlike for all else. That was how I knew. It was also her manner, the way she carried herself so lightly; her feet barely touched the ground. I could tell she would be more comfortable barefooted than shoed. Light seemed to hover about like a soft wind through her hair.
Remember, I was in a bit of a haze—don’t mind my honey-soaked words.
Now, actually talking for the first time, the seed was set. What would happen? What could happen?? I wrote down her email and phone number. She said some kind words before I hung up, and I did so with a great grin and a sign. I spent an hour or two talking gay politics, culture, and history with Kelly before heading back to my dinghy.


Like mangy dogs Dustin and Kenny dragged themselves back aboard about eight the next morning. Kenny was in far superior shape, having slipped off to sleep early. Dustin wasn’t nearly as fortunate. With great pleasure we mocked him for his shameless debauchery and drunkenness. A day and a half later we were back in Port Townsend.
Dustin and Kenny went their ways and I went back to work. But now I had a little thought: what about this girl I met?? Can this work out to be something meaningful? Can this be real, to sprout from such a fleeting meeting?
I think it was the very first email I sent to her that I laid it all on thick and heavy. If I was going to start, I’d start all out. I asked her if she was intuitive and compulsive—could she trust a glance and a dance to lead her into a relationship with a man, and, what’s more, with a man who is leaving shortly. (I was still of my old plan to sail to the S. Pacific in a few weeks.) Could I coax this girl to go…with a stranger? It was a long shot, but by my own philosophy—this was precisely why it would work. The regular paths don’t often pan out for me, but the improbable—it works just when you most need it to.
So I laid it on, gave her my plan, and told her I wanted to get to know her. In the end, I would talk to her on the phone before she would receive this email—so I got to do it all over again vocally. With this first phone call, small but poignant little “things” started to happen. I would say coincidences, but that would be to mis-speak. Coincidence implies luck or accident—but that is to underestimate the universe. She had already been planning a trip to Hawaii (my original plan) and Kelly had made her promise to come to Baja with him over the winter (my current plan). She had spent time in Kauai and longed to be back there. You look at her and you know she belongs in the islands, her skin, her nature—it all belies it. I know this now having spent more time with her, a second trip to Orcas.
The first obstacle was finances. She wasn’t ready; she had some debts that must be paid before any sort of adventure could be made. It was both amazing and somewhat eerie to be talking this way—about the future and all—with someone known only through a dance. It was also extremely exciting, but I tried to remain somber and realistic about our chances. 9 out of 10 opportunities never pan out for me.
But the more we talked, the more email I read and wrote, the more I realized that this could be special. Carmel has a vitality that I need. I need positivity, love, smiles, and confidence. She often rights in CAPS and with lots !!!!!!!!—her pleasure and joy seems to be larger than regular diction and punctuation will allow her.


It was time to get back to the islands. I was thinking about her a lot. We only talked from time to time, but I learned of her family and history, but the phone and letters were insufficient. All I could still see were her eyes. But as it turned out, getting back would be no easy feat. The weather had turned. I tried once and was pushed back to Port Townsend. The weather was such that a friend reckoned the skiing, at least, should be great. Winter had finally begun! So last Thursday a friend stopped by and asked if I wanted to go up to Mt Baker for a day of skiing. I was stoked. Skiing, of course!
Mt Baker is in northern Washington. We took a ferry to the mainland, drove into Bellingham for the night and skied the next day. On the way home, I realized that a town we passed on the way, Anacortes, had a ferry to Orcas. I could be in Orcas that very night. If the weather wouldn’t let me sail—why not catch a ferry in the mean time??
I told the guys my plan and to drop me in Anacortes. When I got there I called Carmel to clear my plan with her. She sounded stoked so I hopped the ferry and waved to my boys. Tired as I was, my smile denoted the importance of the time. What would come?


A few hours later as I walked off the ferry I could see Carmel’s hair blowing in the wind. It was dark, about eleven at night. We hugged and smiled and went to her car. I loved it immediately. It was an ’83 Civic. It’s a total hoopdie like my old dancer (except it gets something like 50 miles to the gallon). No rear view mirror, no tail lights, no tabs, no insurance—only on a small island where you know all the cops could you dream of such madness. It was my sort of car.
Her house too, was as I would have it. Tiny, yurt-like. It was circular. One bed, no chairs, no couch, a small bathroom, a shrine-like table, a sink, fridge, and stove all stuck together, a drum and a guitar, all secluded up on a hill with firs and cherry trees. It was perfect.
She played a few songs on the guitar. She was nervous. I tried to make jokes to lighten the weight of the situation. Here I was. I was staying. How to progress? We talked and drank tea, sort of stared at each other. Carmel had to work the next morning, Saturday, then had the next day free. I honestly tried to let her sleep, but we yapped on and cuddled until it was late.
It was real.

The little “coincidences” that revealed themselves were astounding. I can’t ever remember so many in so short a time. Here’s a brief list:
We talked about poetry. The first poet she asked me about was Robert Service. Grandma recited “The Cremation of Sam McGee” to Mom, and Mom to me. It is the only poem I have memorized—and was written by the first poet she named, Robert Service.
We talked about books. The first she mentioned was The Alchemist, her favorite book. Of course, it’s mine (one of several) as well. Anytime someone mentions that book, I always counter by asking about Siddhartha, they being so similar and so great. She didn’t know it right off, but it sounded familiar to her. As it was, the book was in her back seat—a friend had just given it to her. She had forgotten.
We went into a sports store to buy a present for a friend’s birthday. She said, “I was thinking about buying a headlamp for him,” and shows me a lamp. That exact lamp, among many others on the rack, was presently in my backpack in her house. I smiled and said that it was a very good lamp. Walking straight from the lamp, she walked to some gloves and said that she liked these as well. This was more than I could bare. Among all the many gloves there, she had, again, picked the same gloves that I had in my pack. Amazing! And yes they were great gloves. But, I said, I knew of some a bit better. They were cheaper and more rugged, only five bucks. She knew them. They were made by Atlas and she also had a pair.
(Really—the best gloves ever.)
Making a toast with wine, simultaneously, we both say, “Salud”—not “Cheers.”
Walking up to a couple of horses at pasture, we both “nayed” simultanioulsy and in the same manner. It was eerie.
Sushi—unagi is our favorite kind.
Diet—she is only the third person I have ever met to try the same raw food diet that I am using.
And most poetically, there is a picture drawn by her grandmother. It is of a sailboat in a small harbor at sunset. When Carmel thought of it, she noticed that it looked identical to the harbor where I first anchored when I came to Orcas. (Strangely, she has another separe picture that looks identical as well.)

I could go further down that road, but what is the point? The point is made: music as well as all of these small little events and actualities gave us a stirring sense of predestination—that somehow this was “meant-to-be”. It is a haunting sensation to feel that when the actual experience of the person you care about is so limited.
We went to a birthday party of a friend. We ate and played drums. I hadn’t drummed in so long; it was a real joy. Everyone was amazing and friendly. I couldn’t have felt more comfortable.
Sunday, we woke and went to a sauna / hot tub. It was in an old rustic resort, not yet bereft of its original character and charm. Clothes were optional and not preferred. The hot tubs offered a view over Doe Bay that could rival, almost, some of Idaho’s hotsprings.
One thing I love about Carmel is that she hums and sings as she goes. Music seems to be always with her. One night she played guitar as I read Walt Whitman poems aloud. Sometimes she read me her poetry. She’s always singing.

How much should I share?
What is important is that what we dreamed had began to manifest. It is real! We are more alike than I could have hoped, but in more unexpected ways.
I stayed about four days. I met lots of the island and we drove around to little niches here and there. We talked a lot. On the whole, we took things very slowly. This seemed almost awkward to me considering the emotional bridge which I felt had already been built. Now that I’m not leaving the region for a few more months (August / September) we have time, time to learn and figure each other out. I think we are in the same place. I hope we are. I feel we are. I want us to be.


I got home last night. One ferry from Orcas to Anacortes, a bus, then a great hitch with a fellow writer/teacher all the way to Keystone (Port Townsend) Ferry which took me home. I slept hard last night and today the rain is falling just as hard. I’m excited and surprised. I keep a measure of doubt and uncertainty—but I am overwhelmed and curious. I want more, but how do I move forward?
I now have two lives which need reconciliation. I didn’t think about sailing when I was with Carmel—I was enmeshed in the adventure of finding a new lover. How can I focus on my path to becoming a real sailor and still pursue a relationship in Orcas?
Soon I am leaving Port Townsend. My boat is about ready. My engine needs help—that is the one catch. But I am free to sail up to Bellingham and ski again, to Victoria and bike the island and visit Baloo. The season is nearly here to travel farther north—or I can stay in Orcas with Carmel. How do I balance? How do I do it all?
Carmel is now important to me. Sacrifices are necessary. I want to see what will come. I am excited. So much is happening, but I can’t lose my way. I need her help.


This is pretty much where I stand in things: blessedly confused! If only spring would drive away some of the rain and offer fair sailing winds. If only Carmel would fall in love with me, and I with her. What is grander than having love in your life? That would be the ideal. From there anything would be possible, nothing unlikely or unattainable. She’ll teach me to surf and I’ll teach her to sail.