– C H A P T E R I I –
Sam’s chair sat on a large wooden
veranda about 100 feet above the ferry dock and overlooked the
waterfront street on the hillside of Friday Harbor, San Juan Island
in the state of Washington. It was November, the Sunday after
Thanksgiving. A cloud slid in front of the sun, turning the water
more green than blue. In every direction beyond the small village
the abundance of trees and rough granite, of deep, current-frothed
waters, the land and sea presented a ruggedness that nourished
Sam’s soul. When the sun re-emerged from behind the small
cloud the water as if by magic took on a bluer hue, the whites
of the boat hulls looked bleached, the sea gulls contoured and
gleaming like ornaments aloft.
It was a place of eagles and whales.
In the summer the harbor was like
a carnival; in the winter it was more like a town of cousins going
about their business. Those who thought of themselves as die-hard
island people from way back tended to live inland, like their
ancestors, the original settlers who saw beaches as weather-blown,
joyless places where you couldn’t grow a turnip.
|
The harbor, which was shaped somewhat
like a bowl cut in half, with the hillside making the rim and
the water making the bottom, bristled with houses and small business
establishments, a haphazard road grid connecting it all.
To Sam’s right stood a large
old home converted to a coffee shop, ironically named the Doctor’s
Office, selling its wares to every caffeine-craving, nature-loving,
ferry-riding, hippie dude on the island. And some of the moderate
republicans as well. To his left was a covered outdoor oyster
bar that had dried up for the winter, leaving no oysters and no
oyster girls to cook them. Some winter afternoons he missed the
college girls as much as the oysters.
These days Sam made it a point to
keep his life in time with the rhythms of the land. On San Juan,
like the other islands, it was easy to be close to the land because
they hadn’t put concrete everywhere and the ocean kept things
scrubbed of heavy civilization. Four-story buildings were rare
to nonexistent. They had no malls, supermarkets of consequence,
freeways, youth gangs, chain stores, doctors who specialized in
something, multiplex movie theaters, or anything that amounted
to much more than a village shop. There were no traffic lights
but there was a great farmers’ market once a week in the
more temperate months. And that was enough.
Prologue Chapter
I Next
Page
|