Tenakee Springs

We took the summer after graduation to kayak up the Inside Passage then ferry ourselves back stateside. We were about three quarters of our way up the Passage when we put to shore one evening at dusk in a small sheltered cove about five miles north of a small village we had paddled past earlier in the day. By dark the kayaks were tied up above the tide line and we were nested down beside the fire, passing around a matte gourd and whiskey flask and watching the stars come out. Our tongues were thawed out and loosened by the whiskey, and our lungs, after inhaling the warm smoke of the fire, exhaled laughter that would freeze in a crystal mist in the crisp air.

We had all been friends since freshman year in the dorms. The second night since move-in, Brad and James, roommates by random assignment, managed to buy a keg and sneak it down the hall past the RAs and into their room, but got themselves caught when a line formed outside their door that stretched all the way down to the commons. They got written up and sent to the same alcoholic and drug awareness workshop as Lindsey and myself, who got written up when the girls’ floor RA walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth and found Lindsey holding my hair out of my face as I puked up vodka and fruit from too much spoadie. Friends ever since.

Laughing over the good times, the sober and the faded, such memories drove our journey onwards just as hard as the paddling. Our bodies were cold and ached to the marrow, and each night when we turned in, our sleeping bags became like a Chinese water torture device that kept us on edge anticipating sunrise just like the next drop of water. With the acknowledgment of the inescapable morning we bid the fire adieu and crawled into our bags, and as we were preparing ourselves for sleep, we heard the rocks along the shore begin to shift.

Footsteps from about a hundred yards away traveled closer and at an unsteady gait. My racing heart pounded over our panicked shushings of one another, as we listened and waited to see what wild Alaskan creature was coming and whether or not we could defend ourselves from it. Through the shadows of the moon, a figure could be deciphered. It was a man, an old fisherman type, stumbling drunk along the shore all the way from that village, I’d assume. The moonlight followed him like a spotlight. His bones were made of driftwood and saltwater ran through his veins. He continued his stumbling stroll until he stopped and stood directly between our camp and the water. He turned to face the sea, oblivious to our observing party.

Dumbfounded isn’t the right word for our reaction, and the word processor thesaurus offers up no better choice, but to continue on. In his left hand was a bottle of whiskey he lifted to his lips and took an Alaskan-frontierman sized swig. He cleared his throat, smacked his lips, and then let out a cry to the sea, “MMRRROOOAAAHHH!” that dissolved into the sounding crash of the waves.

We tried to stifle our laughter, but what did escape our throats, the crackling fire consumed. He seemed out of place here outside of civilization, like maybe he wandered too far from his tent-city downtown. But this drifter was strikingly different from the packers loitering outside downtown bars. We watched, waiting to see what he would do next, but he stood still, bottle by his side. And then from the silence, so far out that the beams from our headlamp couldn’t reach, there was a violent spout of air shot up through the water, as if Poseidon had surfaced. And then the creature called back to answer the old man. For several minutes they called back and forth to each other, like old friends. We sat there with mouths agape and swallowing smoke. Then there was one last “MMRROOOAAAAHHH!” come out from the sea, the violent splash of a breech, and a silence as deep as the Pacific. The old man turned, took a swig, and stumbled on down the rocky shore back towards the faint village lights.