Clouds in Motion

Not as He Imagined

2011-09-16T22:03:00.000-07:00

Half way through the string, the weather is starting to get pretty sloppy. The blue green waters are turning pale with the growing whitecaps. But they are staying out in it until the final pot clears the rail, the line is coiled, and last crab is sorted into the tank before going inside the house and letting sleep take them. How so much steel can look cozy, Darcy doesn’t know. But there it is.

Seeing green water coming over the rail with greater frequency, she double-checks the large rubber bands around her shins that hold her raingear against her high deck boots. The water comes in at all directions when the weather up; it’s just as likely to come up through the deck boards in playful geysers as sideways from the wind or down from the waves that breach the sea wall.

The hazy cloud bank is back lit, making it glow like a light bulb in dense fog; intriguing and looking like the softest pillow. Yes, sleep is becoming an increasing priority as the days grind on. A nice little blast of wet wind makes it down her neck, forcing a shiver out of her. She quietly wills her metabolism to kick up a notch as she bends for another crab to measure.

An unusual clank over by the picking boom grabs her attention. She doesn’t have time to figure out what has happened because what is happening is far more important. A pot is in mid-swing over the deck towards her. Amidst shouts from the crew, she hurls herself over her tote and wedges her body in the shadow of the crane base and sees Scott sail into the bait bin under the shelter deck. Craig’s luck isn’t as good. He has his back turned, tying down a pot. As it continues its wide arc, he turns into its path with nowhere to jump. The size of a medium mattress, it swoops him up and pops him against the port seawall before it flies out over the waters. John is silent at the hydro’s, desperate to get them to respond to his commands. Without warning, the line in the block and tackle frees itself and the pot splashes down in the waters beside the boat. Darcy sees him quickly throw the line back into the block and engage the hydro’s enough to hold the line steady.

She and Juan reach Craig, who is lying on the deck like an orange gingerbread man, face down, at the same time.

Juan rolls him over and they both see his eyes are closed, a raspberry on his forehead complete with some rather long splinters. “Craig! Dude- wake up! You’re getting fuckin wet, man.” Juan flings off his gloves and tries to open up Craig’s raincoat and sweater far enough to feel for a pulse.

Darcy can see that it isn’t necessary; it’s throbbing nicely in a vein in his neck. Juan’s breath is misting in the dark space beside the sea wall. She can see hers too. But Craig’s, she can’t see. There is blood pooling behind his head.

“I don’t see him breathing…” she says. She slides her folded leg under his head to keep it a little farther out of the water that continues to wash the deck.

John joins them. She can hear the Captain calling for an update. Scott turns on the hydro’s to slowly bring the pot back in. Till it can be heard clanking against the side of the boat.
A smear of blood shows on her calf as she cradles his head in the crook of her knee. Pulling off her own gloves, she digs out the liners and holds them against the back of his head. Juan is putting his ear down close to his mouth.

“Craig, wake up!” she says slapping his shoulder, her voice a strange mix of anxiety and exasperation. “Craig, Craig!” Juan is rocked backwards onto his butt as the boat pitches unexpectedly; a wave smacks the side of the boat, sending a deluge straight onto their heads.
“Craig, wake up! This is no place to sleep!” She yells at him, inches from his face trying to protect him from the water. But some of the icy tendrils slip around her protective form and slide deep into the interior of his gear. His chest convulses and he wheezes in a huge breath before coughing it out. He opens his eyes only to close them again and tries to drag in another full breath.

“Craig!” Juan grabs his leg and gives it a shake. Craig coughs and blinks at Darcy, whose face is upside down to him, silhouetted by the eerie clouds. After another few ragged breaths and coughing restarts he looks up at her and says “Hi cutie, this isn’t at all how I imagined it” before coughing again. “Did I miss the mouth to mouth?”

She giggles insanely and cuffs his shoulder, barely denting his thick raincoat. “Ow...” he mock protests before slowly rising to his elbows and patting his ribs. She holds the liners to his head as he rises. He finally realizes what she is doing just as she almost can’t reach anymore, and his hand goes up and takes them from her fingers. His brow arches in question as he sees the glistening maroon liquid against the army green of her wool liners. Without comment, he holds them in place again, unerringly finding the right spot as he makes his way toward the now open hatch way. Darcy can see the Captain inside opening the medical kit through the warm glow of the lights over the galley table. Juan doesn’t touch Craig but walks beside and then follows him inside.

Dust Everywhere

2011-08-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

My son coughs and I untie the mask that drapes his nose and mouth. The dust that swirls everywhere has made thin cakes on the dampened cloth again so I flip off the worst while he holds his breath. After tying it back into place, I rest a hand on his shoulder briefly as we walk back to the house. Dust is everywhere, a thick layer over everything hiding the skeletal remains of trees and bushes that were once vibrant, green and alive. Now it is only us, my little family and I, plus the wild cat that my girl has befriended, that move through this parched landscape between the house and the rows of oddly shaped greenhouses that radiate like spokes from our earthen home, the wind bellowing at us like an angry crowd.
“Momma?” My boy is used to speaking above the noise, just as I am used to hearing his voice through the dust mask.
“Yes, love.”
“When will it end?”
“I don’t know, hon, I know the net has been down for days now. But I’m sure they’ll get it back up soon. It shouldn’t be much longer now.”
“No, I mean, all of this. When will it stop, Mom? You said someday this will all be over and we won’t have to grow food indoors anymore. We might even get to buy it at a store: when will that happen?”
I brush away tears that don’t come, the sand scratching my cheek under my own mask. “I don’t know, love, I don’t. But I hope real soon, OK? Maybe they’ve found a way to clean the air, patch up that ozone hole, and gobble up all that CO2 up there.” I wave a hand at the sky, shifting the empty compost bucket to my other hand.” But it doesn’t look like it yet. If we keep making greenhouses, maybe we can get enough plants growing to make a difference. They are the only reason why we are here at all. We live to help them grow so they can feed us, shelter us, and clean our air, water, and soil, right?”
“Right, Momma…” His head is down but I can still tell he’s chewing over something.
“Mom, why didn’t they try harder to stop it?”
“I don’t know, love, I really don’t know.”
“Didn’t they know what was going to happen?”
“It’s hard to figure but it does seem like some people knew but it wasn’t enough, I guess.” I open the dust room door and we take turns sweeping off the layers that have settled on us before opening the inner door, and stepping down into the main room of our house. The light streaming through the sky light is soft; the small dome of glass has been scoured by with thousands of tiny rocks. My girl sits on the floor surrounded by odds and ends that she has taken from a wooden box, flecks of dust sparkle in the light around her. “Mom, look! I found this in the box from the landfill. What is it?”
We join her and I take the item in question, turning it over in my hands. The edges are dinged a bit but the screen seems intact. I check the terminals and they seem un-corroded. Without power it looks like a flat, rectangular dish.
“It’s a tray that lights up, stupid. Can’t you tell?” My boy says, quick to try and gain the upper hand.
My daughter screws up her face at her brother but turns back to me, her face lighted with anticipation.
“It’s a tablet PC…” I say softly as I hand it back to her. She reaches for her tool kit, fingers buzzing over them as she decides what to start with. My boy flops down beside her to watch. I head to the kitchen to finish dinner and to hide my own despairing questions.

A Deep Well

2011-08-04T06:17:00.000-07:00

Tripping down the engine room stairs, I see Lance ahead of me in the tool room. Inwardly, I tense but try to keep calm. His head flies up when he hears my feet on the metal grating, the generator rumbling in the engine room masking my approach till then. His hands are busy with something on the work bench. “Hey Lance, John sent me for a ½ inch deep well socket.“

He puts down some short pieces of metal tubing and shoves them over to the side, lifting a small plastic bag off the table and puts it in the pocket of his sweats. “Oh, he did, did he?” A deadly smirk rising on scruffy face “A deep well.” He says staring at me.

I stop in my tracks. “Yes, Lance, a deep well ½ inch socket. John needs it to finish getting the launcher apart. Can you show me where they are?” I try for mild irritation glossed with professionalism. But I’m not convincing, even to myself. I try to peer over his shoulder at the neat racks of tools.

He turns slowly, blocking my view. “Oh I know where you can find a deep well.” My irritation becomes real. John is up there up to his eyeballs in rusty broken parts and greasy new ones and this asshole is wasting my time. “Lance…. Please, just let me have it so I can take it to John.”

He reaches up, and takes down a set. There are several smaller ones that are dirty inside. And with deliberate slowness pries out the ½ inch one. “I’ll give it to you,” he tosses it gently around in his hand, almost a caress and then holds it out towards me. I reach for it and feel its cold steel slightly warmed by his grimy fingers. “… for a price.”

My head is bent checking that he gave me the right one, but snaps up at his words. He slams my back against the bulkhead with the power only a deckhand on a push pot deck can have. The shock makes me inhale. One hand grips my wrist, the other is trying to invade my sweat pants. His mouth smashes down on mine and I instinctively close my eyes as stars burst behind my eyelids. The knot in my draw string frustrates his attempts. Jamming his fingers into me as easily as if I were wearing a dress, he says “this is the deep well I’m talking about. Give it to me.”
He’s taking it from me, willing or not. My scattered senses condense and I get my feet squarely under me with knee ready to go. With my free hand I manage to get it between our bodies and shove on his throat. He leans into it laughing. “Come on baby, all the others have.” Taller than me, his weight bears down. “NO.” I manage between gritted teeth. I take my chance and jam my knee upwards, connecting with his testicles. My head is already under his. As he retracts in a groan, I butt him hard in the face with the crown of my head. Through my tangled hair, I see his foot and I try to stomp on it but miss. I don’t try again and run down the companion way.

“You fucking bitch!” he yells after me. I glance back to see him curled over, bracing himself against the bulkhead wall, the other holding his eye before I stumble up the steep stairs into the galley. Now I know what the other deckhands were sniggering about: Lance in the tool room using his tools and he’s not the engineer.

No one is there sitting around the table or cooking. Rubbing my face on my sleeve, I’m shaking. I tug my clothes back into order and make my way onto deck. John is there with a mechanic from the dock. Their heads bent to their work, talking back and forth. I clank the socket down by the others and head back inside. “Thanks, doll” he calls after me. With measured steps, get myself inside the Head and lock the door.

Great heaving breaths wrack me as my thoughts scramble. Splashing water from the sink on my face, I try to get rid of the feeling of his mouth on mine, his tongue stabbing. Instead, it makes me sick thinking about it. Washing down the bile helps.

I get myself together as best as I can and emerge with a stilted walk, resolutely going up the wheelhouse stairs. No matter what, no one can know about the assault. My immediate thoughts are my reputation and my job are on the line. If word gets out that I make trouble for the crews, Fish and Game won’t put me on the boats. It’s my word against his and I’ll lose. He’s a respected deckhand and his family has been fishing for generations. The very fact that I placed myself on a fishing boat is proof enough to most that I’ve asked for such treatment. But, the Captain has every right to know about what I think Lance was hiding.

Thankfully, he’s there. “Captain, got a minute?”

X, Y, and Z
Hamstrung by my inability to speak plainly, I try to convey my meaning to the Captain with vague references. Tied up to the dock, somehow I feel even more trapped by the confines of the wheelhouse. I lean back on the chart table seeking ground.

“It’s not like I know this stuff. I’m a biologist, right, but not on this. So I could very well be wrong. I just know that.. well, it was weird, ok?” My hands dart here and there as I speak, betraying the level of my nervousness.

“Did he..” The captain sits in his chair, fingers laced in his lap, feet on console.
“No," I interrupt “I mean he tried, maybe, but I could see it coming so I dodged. And then, well.. I wasn’t trying to see anything and I’m not sure that I did.”

“What did you see?” His body calmly holds the building tension as I talk.

“I don’t exactly know.” I say, rubbing my nose. “But I know something smelled….off.” I glance at him, hoping he’d get the rest on his own.

He stares hard out the wheelhouse window before turning back to me. “Why were you in the tool room, again?”

“Well,” shifting on my feet ”because John asked me to grab another socket because he didn’t want to let go of that coupling, and Russell was over talking to Pat on the dock. So I went to get it but Lance was kinda blocking my way.”

“And what did… he did try something?”

“He kinda came at me with his arms out, you know? But I just… it was easy to slide past him.” My eyes dart away before resting on the tops of my boots. Captain stared at me long enough for me to look up at him.

“He let you get the socket?”

I held his gaze for a second before looking out the windows at the wind-blown bay. “Yeah, well he was real quick about helping me and wouldn’t let me look for it myself.” Shifting my feet again, I sigh. “I'm pretty sure I saw black or gray ash on the table and some of the smaller sockets were black inside.”

He stiffens slightly and then forces his shoulders to un-bunch. “Thank you, Darcy. I can take it from here. Don’t worry, you don’t have collect evidence on this one.” His short chuckle is forcibly relaxed as he stands and tugs up his sweats. “I may have sucked at algebra but I know where this one is going.” A self-depreciating grin makes him seem older than is 38 years and incorrigibly younger too.

My face flushes as I stand to the side allowing him to pass. “I’m sorry” I offer.

“Don’t be.” He stops beside me. “You either saved me my license or at least gave me the incentive to get those piss tests ordered for the crew. Either way, it’s a good thing.” He waits till I meet his eyes and then heads down the stairs to the galley.

I shudder a sigh out, taking roost in the starboard chair. The icy wind dances over the waters; the sun so bright, it can sting eyes to tears.

Safe Harbor
We’ve been tied up to the dock beside Magone’s since late last night. Our launcher is in pieces on the deck. John is beginning to look and smell like a black bear that’s rolled in a dead walrus. It broke 3 days ago and shortened our trip by almost a week.

The main generator went out as well just as the islands became visible on the radar. Alone in the galley, it had seemed even more like a void in the belly of a beast. I made my way to the wheelhouse unsteadily. With everything suddenly dark on the boat, I had imagined I could see the soft glow of safe harbor behind the steep sloped mountains of the Aleutian chain in the twilight. But it could have been a rolling cloud bank silhouetted by the slip of the moon. The quiet had been deafening with only the sound of lapping waves on the hull and clumping feet to the engine room, hands to flash lights. John switched power over to the backup generator and we made our way into town. I was almost sorry we couldn’t stay and float more.

After I told the Captain the part of my story of what happened just a few hours ago that he needed to know, he did find Lance with some of the paraphernalia when he went down to the engine room. I felt vindicated but scared. Lance stormed and threatened everyone but not me, directly. Thankfully, the sheriff came quickly for him. For once, being a state fish cop had its advantage. Mess with me or my stuff, and it’s a felony… if I can document it.

His glare spoke volumes though. Cap said since he found the stuff, it was out of my hands, not to worry. But I am still jumpy knowing Lance posted bail. His uncle pulled some strings and he is roaming the docks again. The Fierce Allegiance hailed us to report he was looking for a job with them. No beach walks for me this time.

Taking a hot shower has helped. Not having the luxury of doing it for real, I mentally wrap myself in a warm blanket and cradle my tea in my hands, sitting in the starboard chair watching the faint stain of light across the harbor. I hear Craig in the galley and the smell of bacon stings my nose. Stirring out of my safe harbor, I go see if I can help.

Evidence Collection
Strands of my blond- and for once, clean hair keep slipping from behind my ears trying to tickle my nose and chin as I’m bent over my paperwork laid out on the galley table. I am ready to wrap up this trip's worth of work. The trouble with Lance has made it more complicated to finish. I will be reporting my to Fish and Game supervisor in a few short hours. I haven’t felt comfortable being anywhere I could be potentially trapped while Lance was still aboard. Sitting on the backside of the U-shaped bench around the table, protects my back but indeed means I sometimes get trapped by the guys. When friendly, this is no big deal but with Lance, I never want to give him even a hint of a reason to do what he did ever again. So I’ve has waited till now to finish.

I still have one more string of data to transcribe off my tape recorder. Not liking my voice broadcasted in bad Minnie mouse imitation, I use headphones. But quietly, so I can still hear voices in the wheelhouse. Staring at wet boot prints on the linoleum, lighted by the low Alaskan sunlight coming through the open hatch, I rewind the tape listening from where I’ve left off last.

Head bent writing down numbers from the tape, It takes a little bit before his voice breaks through my focus. When it does, it sends an electric jolt up my spine. I rip the headphones off my head and sit, all ears, as I try to figure my next course of action.

“I just want to get my stuff, Mike.” No longer part of the crew, he didn’t call him Captain.

“I don’t want you on this boat another second. Do you get that?” The sound of a radio hand piece being unclipped makes its way downstairs.

“I do, Mike. I get it. I just want my stuff. I got a job and their leaving town.”

“Oh you do? On which boat?”

“I don’t have to tell you nothing. I just need my gear.”

This back and forth goes on. I get a sense that the Captain is delaying more than refusing.
I gather my things together with an efficiency that surprises me, considering my unsteady fingers. Looking at the tape I have already gotten data from, I hesitate. It is rewound, ready for the next time they haul gear. Without giving it anymore thought, I eject the tape I have been working on and replace it with this other one.

The sound of boots on the metal stairs freezes me. It is Juan. I close my eyes for a split second and let out my breath. Juan mouths “It’s Lance”. I don’t know how or what he knows but I am grateful for his discretion. I nod and continue to gather my things, breathing easier. He helps me get everything onto my bunk in the stateroom I share with him, his thick fingers look out of place wrapped clumsily around the stacks of my papers.

“He’s a dick” he says quietly. I couldn’t agree more, the smallest of smirks breaks through my panicked thinned lips.

Back in the galley, I am ready to flee but the scientist in me says when you can gather evidence, do it. Juan is trying to shoo me out the deck door. I whisper “I want to hide this” holding the tape recorder. He looks quizzically at me at first but then his eyes widen and he nods.
We both turn in circles looking for a good spot. I spot the large trash can that is tied to a pole at the base of the stairs, centrally located in the galley and close to the stateroom doors. Perfect. Juan stands between me and the stairs, one eye on me as I tuck it just under some paper plates, the other up at the wheelhouse. The sheriff has arrived and the voices are moving closer.

Briefly, I break one of my rules and put a hand on his elbow and give it a quick squeeze. Our eyes meet for a split second and I slip down the short hallway toward the deck door. Juan turns on his heel to the frig and opens it. The last thing I hear before I escape to the open is Lance’s belligerent voice and his feet on the stairs.

“Hey Juan, where’s that bitch fish cop? I have a word or two I’d like to say to her.” Their voices fading quickly, my heart pounding in my throat, I vault up and across to the dock. The breezes coming off the water has never felt so good and my feet carry me away. To where, I don’t quite know yet but the Ship Supply down the road a bit seems a safe bet, for now.

Let Him Hear It
The clear light of the rising sun welcomes me as we finally pull away from Dutch Harbor. Gentle undulations, like fine silk in a breeze, cover the water. Breathing easy for the first time in days, I head inside behind Juan. Russell and John are still working on the launcher.

Juan eyes me over his shoulder, jet black locks curling in the breeze around his work worn face. “Have you heard it yet?”

“No, not yet. I was waiting till we were away first. Plus I had to finish up with Fish and Game.”
“Ungh.” This boat’s favorite non-descript acknowledgement.

Trying for nonchalance I pop into my stateroom and grab the recorder and head phones. But I can’t deny that my hair is standing on end again. Sliding into the galley table, I glance around the corner and see Craig at the sink doing dishes. I should have thought about that possibility. Having more as an audience is not what I wanted. As I rewind the tape, Juan fills a coffee cup and slides in opposite me.

“…That bitch wouldn’t give me any.” Lance’s voice is all too clear.

“Yeah, well…” I hear the sound of another drawer being opened and emptied.

“I asked nice and everything. I mean, she’s got those tits in your face all the time…”
“I know” says Juan quietly.
… and then she goes and asks me for a deep well. So I copped a feel of hers, know what I mean?” I can hear the buddy-buddy nudge even without seeing it. Juan’s laugh is forced.
“And then the cunt nails my gonads for it.”
“Whoa, man.”
“Yeah, she has the guts to go down there to the tool room, we’re all alone and she doesn’t give me anything. I have to take it. Fucking bitch, I have to tell you…”

I click off the recorder and slowly pull the head phones off. My face is flushed with frustration and embarrassment. And yet, I have my proof. I was able to be in the right place at the right time without being noticed; the proverbial fly on the wall. Now, what to do with it?

Juan lights another cigarette, not looking at me. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I..” looking at his solid shoulders hunched over the table, I swallow and try again. “I didn’t have proof.”

Craig comes over and leans on the post by garbage can drying his hands on rag. “What’s going on?”

Juan looks over at Craig before turning to me. “You didn’t have to have it, you know.”

Tears well in my eyes, I nod. I look at the swimming vision of Craig, his halo of blond curls blurry enough to make him look like a grown up cupid. “I found Lance with the pot.”

Juan shakes his head. “But that isn’t the problem.” My face is now putting out its own heat and I can’t meet their eyes. The cigarette burn in the table matt is suddenly very interesting. “He cornered her below deck.”

Craig straightens his significant frame to full height. “Oh” he breaths. I have the sneaking suspicion he knows far more about Lance than he’s let on as well.

Juan turns back to me. “Darcey, you have to tell the Captain about this. If you can’t do it, let him hear this tape.”

He Didn’t Hurt Me
Maybe it was the extra sleep the repairs have afforded them, but Juan and Craig seemed particularly astute and gracious at the moment as they lead me up the stairs to the wheelhouse, one behind and one in front. Not as a prisoner but, maybe as honor guards. It feels strange to see this side of them, almost gentlemen. Juan belches as he clears the stairs into the wheelhouse announcing our presence. That’s more like it.

A tension breaking giggle leaks from me as it is my turn to step into the Captain’s domain. I need to get this out as quickly as possible or I’m not going to be able to at all.
Scanning the calm waters, it is a comfort to find them empty of land or boats, just endless miles of glimmering satin that we glide through on our way to the grounds. I have only to deal with these five guys and one Captain. Lance is gone, I say to myself again. But the new guy, Scott- who’s been comatose in his bunk for 6 hours now, doesn’t seem like a winner either.

“I’ve got…” I blurt.

“Hey, Darcey has..” Juan starts but then steps to the side.

Captain Mike looks at him and then Craig, then back to me. He re-hangs a radio mic on its holder and lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head. “What’s up, guys?”

I come to a complete stop returning the Captains questioning look. I grab my gaze away from his and stare at the horizon, my fingers clasp together inside my hoody pocket. Quick now: “I didn’t tell you everything about what happened with Lance. He tried to…” swallowing, I’m shaking again. “I’m not sure how far he would have gone but he forced a kiss and…” my voice stops. The pain of being thrown against the wall and the humiliation of his hands and mouth on me comes back in full.

Craig steps just to the right and behind my shoulder but doesn’t touch me. Smart boy. I try to stand tall but tears are near the surface again, just that quick. Their support does that.

Juan’s steady gaze asks me to go on. I give the slightest of nods, no. He turns to the Captain. “From his bragging, Cap, it sounds like he did more than steal a kiss. But she got away from him. Gave him something to remember you by too, didn’t you.”

“Yes, I did.” I say with some pride. Lance has gotten away with being an asshole because he has a steely, unforgiving strength.

“Cap, did you see how he was bent over and that welt on his cheekbone when he finally came upstairs?” Juan asks.

“Yes, I was a little curious about that but I didn’t give a dime at the time. I was far too concerned about the mess he brought with him than his health.”

“Darcey did that.”

“No kidding. Good one!” But he stops and studies me. “Honestly, I had a suspicion that something more had happened. Are you OK?”

I cling to what little control I have over my emotions, it’s like trying to stuff tinsel into a bottle. “Yes, I’m fine.” This slight lie seems a good compromise. What are they going to do? Hold my hand while I bawl my eyes out? Hardly.

“Honestly?”

“Yes, Captain, I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.” And really, I am- now.

The tension lifts from the Captains shoulders at this. I wasn’t asking him to stich a wound he couldn’t see.

“Juan helped me get him on tape when he came back to get his things. I’m not entirely sure what to do with it now, though.”

He scans the waters briefly “Well, I suppose I should listen to it and then I can help you decide” before turning back to me. “OK?” I hand it over to him and then retreat to the starboard side chair.

Juan gives me a look of encouragement. I nod thanks in return before he goes below deck. Craig stays and leans back on the chart table staring out over the water while the Captain listens to it. I find his continued presence a comfort, not wanting to be alone as the Captain is privy to my embarrassment. The boat slices its way through the calm waters, the side windows allowing the salty air to cool my frayed nerves.

Coming Forward
The recording the Captain is listening to of Lance plays along in my head but broken and emphasized. His crude words blare at me, making me feel naked. It is hard to sit still knowing the Captain is hearing those words that Lance had aimed at me. Watching the waves that are more like rivulets in glass compared to the Bering’s normal countenance. But they are still enough to hold me in sway as I chew on my lower lip, hands knitted together inside my hoodie pocket. The gentle slow rocking of the boat over the water is a balm; a mother’s embrace after an injustice. I bury my back deep into the chair and await the sound of the recorder clicking off.

I know what I should do. But I can’t quite fathom the mess it would bring to my life. I don’t know if I could be brave enough: Turning him in. I don’t even know to whom let alone what I’d be charging him with. Sexual harassment is going to be hard to live down. Attempted rape? I’m not sure I have enough evidence to make a difference.

Going up the chain of command seems to make sense. I trust Juan and Craig, Captain Mike too. But the chances of that tape getting mysteriously lost get higher the more people are involved and then what. I don’t trust this close-knit community not to protect one of its own, even if he’s in the wrong. Can I hope that enough women have been so mistreated by him that they would come forward in support? Has he raped anyone? Are they ready to come forward? Have they already and just been shamed for the attempt? I know these waters far better than that fishing village tucked into the rocks.

Craig comes over and stands to my left staring out the window at the birds that are keeping pace with us, their wings cutting the air with precision. Speaking low he says “Hey, what did you call those sea pigeons again?”

“Which ones, those?”

“Yeah, the ones with the dark gray.”

“Oh, Northern Fulmars.”

“What’s up with their beaks?”

“Um, those tube things on top?”

“Yeah, what is it, another set of nostrils?”

“No, it’s actually rather neat. That is where they secrete excess salt.”

“Oh… huh.”

I’ve uncurled enough to swivel in the chair to watch with him. I’m wondering if his next question is going to be –what does secrete or excess mean. But there seems to be something else on his mind. He eyes me out of the corner of his eye and wipes his mouth.

“I know a few of the bar girls in town. I mean, they let me crash at their place sometimes. I tell them I’m just drunk from lack of sleep but really.. I uh.” He eyes me again, seeming to remember that we are mainly strangers thrown into the same living situation for a while, no matter how close our quarters are. “I just like to smell their shampoo in the morning.” His face pinks nicely at this.

“Craig, I’m sure you are quite honorable but I doubt that is all there is to it. You could probably know many of them intimately if you so choose to. You’re a good looking guy, and hey you still have all your teeth.” I joke with him.

Living the way we did, teeth often show the evidence of our fast pace. Plus when the guys are in town, they often get frustrated with these new microbrews with their non-screw lids, using their teeth to pry open bottles. It was a mark of toughness too, somehow. A good third of the fleet are missing their lower canines on at least one side because of it.

Craig shakes his hand dismissively looking a little frustrated. “The girls, they sometimes talk to me. I mean they talk with everyone, it’s their jobs. But one time, they were talking about Lance. They didn’t really say that much, just like you didn’t. But I got the picture that uh… maybe you should try and talk to them once we tie up again.

“Craig, thank you. That is just what I was lamenting, not knowing anyone in town. What are their names?”

He blinks and runs his hand over his mop of curls. “Oh, um… Sharon, Karen.. Lisa? I’m not sure.

I had had hope there for a minute. It’s a small town, I’ll grant you that. I could figure it out probably. But still… I stifle an urge to roll my eyes.

“I’ll hook you up with them the next time we dock, OK?"

“Thanks, Craig. Really” And I mean it.

There She Sits...

2011-07-28T06:51:00.000-07:00

There she sits, a frail older woman in a wheelchair. I can’t bring myself to call her old. She, herself said to her son just the other day “I got up this morning and thought –I can’t be that old, can I?” She turned to him and asked “Can I?” They both laughed as he stumbled for an answer. Yes, it can happen. She is officially 98 years old now. She called for this gathering but asked that we call it anything but a birthday party. She just wanted to see people and besides she’s had enough birthdays, she says. So this year we called it –A Celebration of 100 years of Smith-Warren Family Farming. But we all know why we are here.

We traveled gladly, some by plane first and then joining those of us driving for hours, then with those just a few minutes away with others just walked across the road. She and her husband, Vic are why. He’s been gone for 9 years. His presence is still strong though. There are very few in this gathering that can’t picture his work scarred hands, his stout bandy legged walk. And when she tells a story of them, we can hear his craggy blunt voice and see the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. Those that can’t are mostly like my two young kids born too late to have known their Great Grandpa. Not a big man in stature, just in deeds.

The Grange Hall is full to capacity, the food is hot and so is the large stove that takes up the back corner. It is a perfect spring day; winds breezing through the Ponderosa pines outside with a few dimply clouds to decorate the wide blue sky. The doors to the kitchen and the entry way on the far end are propped open and the normal conversations on the mysteries of who started the fire pass companionably among people all tied in one way or another to woman in the chair. But we don’t see her in our minds eye sitting. There are too many memories of her doing everything but. She has always been in the midst of the work that had to be done. Her touch was always steady and firm and the result was always as remarkable has her bread. Her husband called it desert and we enjoyed it so. Those hands that sit relaxed on top of her purse have kneaded, sculpted, and teased into life countless loaves of bread, dinner rolls, pies, and oh I can’t forget her biscuits. Yes, there is a story there too.

And like her baked goods, the result of her touch was nourishing, satisfying, and heartwarming. It has always been good simply to work beside her. Whatever task that was at hand got done, efficiently and enjoyably. It is plain that many thought the same for when she was able, her help was requested often for this project or that. She rarely said no, even though life at home kept her quite busy already.

She took care of things. Tended to the cooking and sewing for her family, the garden that he plowed for her in the dark soil just out their side door every year. Some may disagree but I say her green beans could not be matched. I felt honored if I was allowed to snap the ends off on canning day knowing I’d get to enjoy them in the following winter, the clean snow blanketing the quiet fields below the house.

Often, she’d be asked to help in the field; driving a tractor, fetching fuel oil from town, taking a load of wheat to the grain elevator. She would help no matter, but she had her own priorities. One day one of her twin boys ran in to get her. The Bull had gotten out and had crossed the road. They were afraid he’d get killed on the road, dashing about. She held up one finger as she headed for the bathroom. “Just a minute, I need to comb my hair. “ She tells this story herself, with her trademark low chuckle.

Their house was one of practical simplicity with very few adornments, and those were family heirlooms with stories of their own. It was as clean as a working ranch house can be; the short napped carpet had no dirt paths across it, no thick layer of dust on anything. But she was not fussy. I think the stress of trying to be would have worn her out long ago. Muddy boots were to be left outside on the stoop. The panting cow dogs would guard them, leaving only to drink from the faucet left to drip into a bowl a few feet from the door along the walk. If you were truly dirty, you’d scrub your face and arms there, and have somebody broom off the chaff and dirt off your shoulders and pants before coming inside in your stocking feet. Grandpa would come in and scrub over the deep double sinks overlooking the yard in the small kitchen, goosing her as she finished up dinner. She’d slap his hand away in mock irritation. “Oh, Vic!”

The line of people getting their dinner grows shorter as most have their plates filled and have found a seat companionably elbow to elbow at the long tables. As things quiet near the end of the meal, her three sons stand and try to put into words why they are there and how appreciative they are of her, and of them all for being there today. I hear the strong emotions caught in my father’s voice and tears come easily to my eyes. He is rightly proud of her, of his family, of this gathering of community builders. How many has she helped in some way, great or small? From the stories, hugs and warm handshakes, I would guess many indeed. But she didn’t do it for the glory, even though she seems to be basking in the attention now. She did it because it was the right thing to do; no discussion was necessary. It didn’t matter to them, where you came from. If you needed a bed and a hot meal, it was known for many a year where you should go: their always unlocked front door.

I don’t know where to start on those stories but one that stands out to me was the one about a young man hiking his way across America and Canada. They found him sleeping alongside the road in the fall after the first snow. They took him home and he stayed with them a few days before he moved on. My own house at the time was locked every night and every time we left the house with few visitors, strangers or not. To hear such a story was a shock and I had to turn it over and over in my young mind. Their generosity did not leave them poorer. Scanning the faces of the crowd, it was apparent it left them much better off instead.
One of my cousin’s kids, with mine in hot pursuit, dashes across the stage area with the kitchen against it’s back wall and down the stairs on the right to the main seating area and around to the other side to climb the ramp on the left. It’s a nice loop and I remember doing the same while the adults were busy catching up with each other at other gatherings over the years. I smile indulgently knowing I should probably shoo them outside. My cousin’s wife beats me to it and their small shoes clap happily on the aging linoleum as they take their game elsewhere. I can only hope that when they are grey hairs themselves and sitting around these same tables talking about stories of their youth, they will be able to cluster around such a lady or gentleman as this one. Will be me? I don’t think so but I take their examples to heart and day by day try to live them.

When I am with her, I listen. But she gets me rabbling on about some darn thing or another and sets me laughing with those great one liners of hers. We pause in our conversation and she remembers out loud a relevant story and I feel better. As much work that has been done by those hands, it’s these simple gifts that I cherish the most.

Her only ailment has been some loss of eyesight leaving her vulnerable to shadows. Yet she seems comfortable as one can be in such a situation, putting a hand on an arm to quietly bring someone closer, needing clues in their speech to identify them. The crowd dwindles as present needs supersede the trials and accomplishments of the past. She stays and talks with those left, the energy of so many well-wishers buoying her spirits. Finally, it is just her and her boys. With great respect they help her home and return to their own families. Hours later she calls my father and they talk for another two hours. Mostly about what a nice day it had been, who had been able to come and what did you think?

I am so very honored to be able to call her my Grandmother. She may laugh at the notion. She is just a simple person who has lived an uncomplicated yet full life, who has loved and had her share of losses all while maintaining her dignity and sense of humor. This is truly a beautiful and wonderful thing. May it grow in us all.

We will Remain Thirsty

2011-07-28T06:28:00.000-07:00

Last night was the final Deadliest Catch episode for this season and I was uptight. I’ve missed a few of the shows this year but I’ve managed to catch most of them now. I wanted to watch this finale “in real time”. My usual disdain for anything reeking of consumerism and a popularity contest was not enough for me to quietly wait for it to come out on Netflix or on disc. So there it was; I really wanted to watch it. I knew I’d be missing out on the conversations that follow and to have to wait months seemed a bit cruel. There is also the camaraderie of a shared experience that I would miss. Talk about a cliff hanger, except I already knew the ending. All the boats came home, all of them made money. We did lose a guy right after (rest in peace big guy) but life has gone on for everyone involved and so will mine. But I didn’t want to move on any sooner than I had to.

Not having T.V at my house, it all depended on the whims of my Mother who lives in the house right beside mine. As fate would have it, she went out on a dinner date with my Dad. I got to watch her dog, my kids clambering all over me as I try to soak in every minute of waves, winds, and temperaments… and cook dinner. To that end, I made several dashes down to my house to retrieve items on commercials, my mind too pre-occupied, for some reason, to get it all on the first go.

It was a strangely cool summer evening. The winds gusting 15-20 miles an hour, tossing the trees like gentle ocean waves, lifting my hair and moving my senses. I closed my eyes softly and inhaled. It didn’t matter that the ocean is a few hundred miles away, instead of grass and sun warmed earth, I smelled instead the clean tangy waters, whiffs of diesel fumes and old bait. It was enough. Opening the door, I heard the block popping and somebody’s belly laugh, the hiss of the waves and the crazy celebration that marks the end of anything so strongly endeavored to finish. It stokes their fires for a well-deserved break that will supercharge them for yet another go around come the turn of the seasons into fall. I am so happy to share a little of their shear exuberance. The Mohawks were a nice touch.

And then, the Behind the Scenes episode played. I stayed glued. It amused in places, informed in others, made me a little tee’d off here and there and affirmed answers I had only guessed at before. All the while, the boats loom over the waters, the engines grind, and day follows night back into day. I know this is the last that I will see anything new of what they chose to share with us. But it is enough to stoke my own fires, to face my own struggles of balancing home and work, family and desires. When I scratch for the right words, the right phrasing to put down, I know many a Captain who has similarly scratched their heads as they tumble the myriad of options around before settling on the one that they stick with and stand by. Don’t worry, Wild Bill, there are those of us that watch the show that will always be thirsty.

This Saturday, when I go to work at the Gorge Amphitheater to tear down a show and load the trucks, I will blare my favorite Metallica CD all the way there, screw my hat on tight and get ready to sweat, hoping the breeze will rise of the mighty Columbia river to cool us. Afterwards I will drive home to the rising sun, tired but satisfied of a job well done. But I’ll remain thirsty. Only a few million gallons of ice cold sea water can quench this kind of thirst.

So until we get to another taste of life on the Bering Sea, crashing around on a crab boat, we will ride with our windows down yowling out our favorite hard driving tunes into the manufactured wind. We will laugh in a lightning storm, smile at a blizzard, squint into the sun. We will protect our friends and harass those who step out of line. We will strive to push our limits and stay above the pettiness. We will live, just a little bit more and will stay thirsty.

Smooth Slides the Snake

2011-06-10T09:57:00.000-07:00

Smooth slides the snake through the grass
that waves above in the early summer breeze.
She tests the air,
delicately flicking her tongue
to follow the warmth of the sun
which beckons her, come closer
and she goes.

Smooth slides the snake across the sun warmed gravel.
Seeing the hawk, she stops and stays.
But he passes over
so she continues her silky sashay,
gently probing the air.
Oh, this way!
She finds the path she knows.

Smooth slides the snake to her boulder home.
She climbs the dark basalt crevices;
her scales grip like small shovels against the sides.
She waits…
The dusty field mouse scurries,
Her senses awaken and she goes down,
keeping low.

Sneak, creep, peek, her eyes adjusting for the dusky sky.
And then…
One quick snap and she eats.

Smooth slides the snake to her rocky bed,
coiling her sleek sides.
She soaks up the last of the day’s warmth,
quietly awaiting tomorrow’s rise.
Her sleeping shape,
like a rose,
basks in the moon’s glow.

Just for the Money

2011-05-18T18:03:00.000-07:00

My throat is tight. Swallowing again, I adjust my grip on the chart table. The inside the wheelhouse is quiet-except the popping static of the radio, and dark- with only the soft glow of the depth sounder, computer monitors, and the display panel for the engine room. Beads of sweat are gathering at the nape of my neck. The heaters are on full blast. Small fans push the air at the windows trying to stay ahead of the ice that is steadily building on the outside. Sludgy rivulets trace down the panes after the boat emerges from each deluge. Legs spread wide to brace myself, my feet slide inside my socks on the close napped carpet. Deliberately, I force my breathing to slow.

“Hey, I didn’t see you there”. The captain glances my way before turning his attention back to the weather. He seems neither annoyed with my presence nor pleased. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was, but I got tossed out of my rack.” My elbow and the back of my head still smart a bit but I don’t lift my hands to rub them.

He doesn’t take his eyes from the water. “Did you break anything?”

I’m not sure if he means me or the boat. “No,” I finally reply.

His muscular hands with long practiced moves, nudge the throttles and the rudder to keep us pointed nose first into the worst of the weather. His shoulders twitch under his tee-shirt. Unlike so many other Captains, this one has not succumbed to shape of the chair. At 16, he lied about his age to get on a crab boat and worked 10 years on deck before he moved upstairs. The words that come to mind regarding his frame are substantial strength in motion. These could be applied to most that carry the label deckhand. But few start so young to have their frames molded so completely to the job. I think only gymnasts have equal strength and agility in their upper body as fishermen do. This captain has lost none of that. It has been set in his bones.

He stands. There is no captain’s chair; he took it out. He stands, leaning forward as the boat goes up one side of the steep dark hills, and back as we slide down the face. The blows to the side and bow of the boat as she fights to stay up right reverberate through her hull. The wind howls through the rigging. But he and I stand silent. Our strong mast lights illuminate the spray as we merge into the water, which sounds like for a second or two, a downpour on a tin roof in Mississippi. The lights strike nothing but air as we crest the next one.
Going down into the trough, I allow it to carry me forward, floating on tipy-toes, to grip the wide dash that skirts the inside of the wheelhouse, the gyroscope is tilting crazily in its inset stand. My face is now just a few feet from the onslaught but protected by an inch of Plexiglas held by steel plating. The boat is a house forward design so I can see the personal details of the beating our bow is taking, a layer of ice building all along the rail and coating the inside. The scuppers are still clear though; the white churning water escapes easily.

I take another look at his face and see no fear. Swallowing again, I work on relaxing my death grip. “How long before it’s supposed to let up?”

“Another 4 hours. But I’m guessing less. We’ll probably start hauling gear in two. It should be lighter then. “

All I see is inky blackness past the scope of our lights. The waves don’t gain any definition until they gleam into existence in front of our bow. Trails of wind whipped rivulets streak the surfaces, like an old man’s wet straggly hair. He throws the throttles full over again and we power up another one, the “psst” of the pneumatic release punctuate the interior silence as he pulls it out of gear at the crest. We are jogging into the weather as we wait out the worst of the storm, four days from town. Four days away, and not another boat on the radar.
His words sound in my head, and I mentally prepare myself to get on my gear and step out into that. A cold shudder runs down my spine despite the heat. I shake my head in the companionable darkness, the muscles in my torso holding firm as the boat careens over to port and then back, the heavy mass of my heart squeezing against my lungs. A low grunt comes from the Captain, the wood cabinets creak in response.

This is all for money, commerce, making a buck. This 120 foot long pride of man’s enterprise with its 7 souls aboard is here, pounding through the winter night in the broad expanse of the Bering Sea risking it all for a paycheck, nothing more. The markets in the Orient pay top dollar for a crab that seems all shell to me. The meat is not worth the time it would take to crack it open. But they think so. So here we are.

The Captain holds out his coffee cup. “Can you refill me?” I stagger walk over to him and take the cup, making my way cautiously down the steep stairs to the galley. At times, it is almost easier to walk on the walls; the stairs somewhere between flat on the floor or steep like a ladder. By the time I make it back up the stairs, I’m giggling. I must look pretty goofy, staggering around like I’m drunk off my keister but completely sober- except the giggling. As I clear the stairs, the wheelhouse door slams shut. The Captain is pulling up his sweats with his other hand. What goes in must come out, or so it seems. I get the cup to him and make my way back to the starboard side.

With a secure hold again, I experiment with the waves. Instead of clinging to the floor, I try and let myself float free as we plummet. I can hover for a few seconds before we slam into the bottom, driving me to the floor. Knees and ankles are wonderful things- astounding, really. I can feel the changes in my own body after a month out here; definitely leaner and meaner. Not that I can keep much food down anyway. But the constant motion at sometimes extreme angles, the repetitive long hours of cold physical work, is changing me more than any hour at the gym ever could.

Not long after, I notice that we aren’t getting slapped around quite so hard. The Captain sends me down to wake the crew. Different shapes, sizes, and colors of bodies but all that same groggy, had a bad night at the bar, hair standing up on end, stuttering around groping for boots and sweatshirts, with the accompanied farts, snorts, and loogie hacking. I leave them after starting another pot of coffee to help the Captain scan the undulating waters for the first set of bags, the smell of bacon frying trailing behind me up the stairs.

All too soon, we are lined up ready to go out and haul the first of many pots of what the marketers have labeled Snow crab. We call them Opies- a slang of their latin name, Chionoecetes opilio. Not that any of the deckhands in front of me knows the whole name. Being the female, the Observer, the fish cop, I bring up the rear. Cigarettes lit in every mouth but mine, gloves strapped under the edge of the rain coats, rain pants secured to high deck boots with rubber bands, hoods pulled tight over baseball hats, the Deck Boss opens the hatch to the door. Our heads bent into the wind, we tumble out running, half sliding in the icy slush to take up our positions. Darkness still dominates the sky. The wind instantly freezes my sinuses with my first few breaths. And before I have crossed to my spot by the high starboard sea wall, my nose hairs have started to stick to each other. The guys work fast to bring up and empty the first pot before setting back over the side. The weather may be shitty but at least the pots have crab in them. Shivering, I wait a few pots to let them get into the rhythm of the day. A popper sends water over the wall behind me and down on top of my head. I don’t try to hold in a yelp. Damn, that’s cold! I double check my hood before stepping forward to claim the contents of the next pot. I pick a doozy. Usually I have two totes full of crawling crab to document before handing them back to the crew. But there are four heaping totes full this time. After throwing a clove hitch to secure the totes to the starboard rail, I get a couple more empty ones to toss the crab I’m done with into and dive into my sampling duties. It doesn’t take long for my back and legs to warm up but my right hand holding my calipers is getting increasing stiff. Thus motivated, I work faster; bend, lift, measure, shout at my tape recorder, toss into an empty tote, repeat- 782 times. All the while working with the boat to stay upright, getting occasionally doused and chasing totes sliding around on their short tethers. After that pot is completed, I wait a few more and sample another, and another, and…

Six hours later, we come inside for a quick meal, my hands alternatingly screaming in pain and numb to the world. I bolt up wheelhouse stairs and plunk down in front of the wall heater, trying to fan my shaking fingers in front it. After a few minutes the Captain peeks around his console at me. I grin up at him.

“Hey bright eyes, you OK?” I’m a morning person so my nickname has just as much to do with that as the color of my eyes.

“Yeah! I’m great!” Just about then, the blood in my fingers starts to thaw enough that a wave of stabbing pain shoots through them. I grimace. He laughs. Soon I can move them freely again and massage the tops of my thighs, my toes, and rub my face, showering my sweats with a layer of salt. My hair is standing up at crazy angles having not finger-combed it down in my mad dash to get to the heater. I jump up and my bladder protests my neglect. “I gotta pee!” The captain laughs again as I navigate the stairs down to the galley and the head.

Thus relieved, hot food in my belly, dry gloves on, I stand ready to go back out and do it all over again. The question of -why do this?- floats back into my mind. Why do we submit to such misery over and over again? Is it really just money? I know my own measly paycheck cannot support that lone answer. The sun is down again having been up just a few short hours the last time we were out. The black long night greets us with indifference. But the wind has died down.
This string of pots doesn’t hold as much crab so there is more time to goof around between each one. The hi-jinx makes me laugh. A seastar sails at my head. I pluck it out of the air and return it to the waters. I am booed by my deck mates for ending their game. I just smile at them.

Later, stretching out in my bunk in the seconds before sleep takes me, the question hovers near. The engines can be heard purring us along our watery route. I am warm, dry, fed, tired, sore, and happy. Money can’t be the only reason why people would do this. I think I know what it is, but I need to sleep on it.

With the Moon

2011-04-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

Jaime steams by me as I slide into my rain gear, his hot anger raising the hairs on my arms. Something is definitely wrong here.

Breakfast had been normal, or so I had thought. The five of us had jammed around the galley table to scarf down a sizable mountain of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and down a gallon of orange juice between us. I had scooted in first so they could eat and be on deck before me, just like always. There hadn’t been much talk. There never is; too much eye rubbing and flexing of shoulders and backs. But there had been a normal amount of grunting, sideways glances, and jabbing fingers at a desired object.

Thinking back, I hadn’t noticed anything unusual till I was helping Todd clean up. I had swung open the frig door with one hand and deposited the butter inside. He came up beside me to the sink with a stack of plates.

“Whoa!”

Closing the door, I had spun on my heel, ready to grab whatever was careening. Everything seemed stable so I threw him a questioning look. He blinked twice before doing the boat shuffle over to the sink, muttering under his breath.

I saw my chance to slip into the head. Went pee but also checked to see if I had a hole in my sweats in an unfortunate location. Nope. No bleeding either. I should have two more weeks before having to deal with that again.

So here I am, the last one to get into their gear, as usual. I can’t help but notice the speed and efficiency that everyone else has shown getting out onto the deck. Jaime slams the door of his stateroom, brand new deck knife in his hands. I busy myself with straightening my own knife belt as he storms past. “Hot head” I silently fling at his back.

The day goes, hours grinding by. I keep my head down and just work. But it doesn’t seem to help. Yet just the motion of bending twisting, moving to the oceans demands feels good and I sink into my own little world.

Night falls. Once again, I lament not being able to see the multitude of stars away from all city lights. But our own sodiums make all a black curtain outside their beam. The boat jogs a slow turn to the next pot and I catch sight of the moon. My smile is immediate. She is beautiful and in full glory. Her glow slices through that dark curtain and dances a path across the waters. I bend and pick up a crab. It’s a female, her egg pouch full of tiny fertilized eggs. She grabs for my calipers as I note their developmental stage. But I’m done and let her slide out the discard chute back into the sea. I wonder when she’ll release her eggs. Some species wait for the full moon.

Chuckling, my back to the sea wall watching the crew empty another pot, I realize what might be the problem; why the guys have been distant and plain crabby with me. I’m ovating. I’m releasing my one egg with a cascade of pheromones and they know there will be no fertilization before it is washed away. Watching Craig’s muscles bunch as he pushes the 700 pound pot into place, there is a whispering but insistent voice within me. “….Or will there be?” A shiver runs the length of my body, ending in that deep private place.

Peace Shattered

2011-04-26T14:38:00.001-07:00

The relative peace of the day was shattered by a rogue wave that launched its assault over the starboard stern of the boat. The monstrous wall of water snapped pot ties and pushed the 7'x7' pots toward the house like they were tinker toys for an over large toddler as it submerged the tail end of the boat and roared up the deck.

The five man crew scrambled to get under the shelter deck of the crab boat. But footing that was just seconds ago known and safe became a tangle of buoy lines and debri as the wave ripped out the bin boards of the line bin sending miles of the ground line twirling in the water to ensnare their feet, arms: what ever it could get a hold of. The diesel engines groaned as the Captain slammed them all the way open, unmercifully applying pressure to their aging pistons.

The water pinned the men to the back of the house while they fought to hang on to slimy hand holds that were covered in equal amounts of hydraulic oil and ground herring juice. Through the onslaught of water they could hear the pots, which seemed so benign stacked in neat rows before, slam into resisting obstacles in their path- the bait bin, the launcher, the sea wall, and, more deadly, the back wall of the house where they were clinging.

Just as quickly, the water receded as the boat righted herself and she plowed through the oncoming swells. Craig quickly did a head count: two beside him, the bait boy appropriately cowering in what was left of the cod bin, Jerry crouched in the lee of the crane base, but where was Juan?

Let Down

2011-04-26T14:36:00.000-07:00

The boat sidled up to the fuel dock, giving it a gentle nudge with it's port side like it was saying hello to an old friend. The deck hands threw the monkey fists attached to the heavy howser lines across the short distance to aging boards of the dock. The arch line of the fists could have been the bouncing of fleas looking for a better home.

This was noted by the outsider on the boat, the lone female biologist standing on the starboard side of the bow. Let them be friends, she thought. Let them share their tales of woe, I need to get off of here, now.

After the main engines had been turned off, it seemed even less like a home away from home and more like a floating hunk of cold steel. She scooted up the wheelhouse stairs and cautiously poked a head in. The captain was at ease, feet up on the dash.

"Cap?"
"Yea?"
"Permission to take a hike?"
" Sure, you going into town?"
"Ah, no. I was... going to walk down the beach."

The Captain paused in his survey of the bay through the wheelhouse windows long enough to scrutinize her for a minute.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be one to hit the bar, would ya. Sure, hit the beach. The tide won't be coming in for two hours, OK?" He thought of something funny. Laughing he said "You going to grab your swimsuit?"

She only gave him a look and rolled her eyes as she darted down the stairs on her way to grab her backpack off her bunk. In less than a minute she was striding away from the noise, the filth, the crude lewd behavior, and seasickness that weakens even the strongest of knees, if only for a little bit.

The wind was mild but still made her ears and nose hurt within a few minutes. She tugged on her hat and zipped up her coat as she kept walking past the machine shops, the gear store, past the pot yard, zigzagging her way through stacks of dormant fishing gear and finally where there were fewer and fewer signs of man's industries.

Her breath came easily and warmed her cheeks before being whipped away. Opening her ears she was rewarded by the sounds of wind through the tall brown grasses. She kept walking along the beach, jumping over tide pools, her body warm and loose by now. Not wanting to get caught too far out, she found a good spot and stood, enjoying the sensation of being able to hold still and not be tossed about by either waves or boat.

Something was trying to break free in her. She tried singing but it was tuneless and broken. It ended in a soft wail. The tears began to flow, hot streaks down her cheeks. The tensions of the past weeks allowed to surface, her body sobbed in release.

After a while, she dried her eyes and slowly made her way back to the boat, her home for now. Her place of work, her personal fish bowl.

Small Package

2011-04-26T14:34:00.001-07:00

To anyone else walking into the galley a small package sitting in the midst of the spread of mail on the table would be a welcome sight. But Craig's stomach clenched. Usually his girl sent a big box of goodies for them; protein powders, cookies, snow gloves, videos, long letters, etc. So to see this tiny one was not good. Especially in light of he had proposed to her before they left for this season.

With shaking hands, he picked it up and stared at her handwriting on the label. He was hoping to see jagged strokes pushed deep. It would mean she was angry and therefore maybe he had something to salvage. But what he saw was completely disheartening; the small smooth strokes of the resigned. He said down and slowly turned it over and over in his hands.
Matt popped in from the deck to grab a cup of coffee, clip board in hand. The offload to the cannery was going smoothly. So far, very few dead and the purser liked how clean and big the crabs were. The sound of a new brailer being lowered into the forward hold could be heard through the open hatchway.

"Dude, just open it and get it over with." Matt returned to the deck, steaming cup in hand.

With trembling fingers, Craig tried to carefully pry off the brown paper wrapping to reveal the jewelers box. Hot tears were threatening to run down his cheeks. He madly ripped it open the rest of the way. Just has he suspected, there sat the ring he had given her, so beautiful and perfect. He could see it on her gracefully small, almost childlike fingers. There was a painfully short note inside. It smelled of her. All it said was "I can't do this anymore. Please take care of yourself. Love, Annie".

A nameless and eternal rage filled him. He covered the distance to the boat's high seawall in 4 strides, gaining momentum as he went. He cocked his arm back and let that box with its perfect little ring fly high out over the waters of the bay, startling the gulls sitting on the bulwark rail. He was already storming his way down the docks to an unseen destination before it hit the surface of the dark waters.

Point Made

2011-04-26T14:32:00.000-07:00

She could still feel the heat from the surge of indignant rage that had washed through her. But her pulse, now, was beginning to return to normal. She licked the wound on her upper lip and wondered what it looked like. Was her blood thin, orange tinted, and watery from the spray, running down her face in rivulets or was it more like thick molasses, clotting right near the surface of each small hole. Knowing her, it was probably the later. She kept everything close on a boat, including her blood.

She didn’t mind them looking at her. In fact the one who did the deed, she dared him to do it again; chin jutted out throwing daggers with her eyes. He had the right good sense to look abashed. A string of victorious incoherent cursing swung through her but she kept her mouth in a grim line. But as he turned away a small smirk played on her lips. By ones and twos the other men were turning and giving her astonished stares. She must be a sight. But she continued to stand her ground and calmly worked through her sampling duties, lifting each golden king crab, measuring, noting its sex and condition before either dropping it with a gentle toss into another tote or, if it was female allowing it to float out the discard chute.

Done with this batch she stood back and pondered a quick run inside the house to see the damage. Her eye was beginning to sting and although she didn’t suspect it, it was possible he managed to poke a hole in her eyeball when he hit her with that balled up female king crab. The engineer came over and tilted his head toward the deck door.

“Did he get your eye?”

She shrugs and gives in to her temptation. Damage report: minimal, but quite visual. The left side of her face has a new constellation of red holes on it, like a new tattoo concentrated around her eye socket. There are two holes right through her eyelid, making it look like she’s crying blood. Small trails of thick red blood from each hole are strangely satisfying to her. She wipes them off reluctantly.

Getting her rain coat back on, she can’t help but have a small swagger going back to her station by the sea wall, which probably is disguised in the roll of the boat. But there is no doubt that she’s standing just a little taller with the blood still trailing from her wounds.
One small but essential victory has been won. She has earned a little respect from one particular grouchy, hard to handle, stubborn as a goat, obstinate deckhand. And now she can continue with the rest of her job duties knowing that as long as she is out there, it is unlikely that he will be tempted to fling female and juvenile king crab at the sea wall allowing them to bounce off before they can float out the discard chute back to the sea. All she had to do is step one foot into the path of their arching bodies across the deck. If only the rest of her job was so easy.

Why am I here?- an answer to why I attend Unitarian Universalist fellowship

2010-11-28T18:12:00.000-08:00

Why am I here?

My name is Kerry and I’m 14 years old. It’s cold outside and I am alone. The creek is making icicles on the low lying branches and roots that dangle off the bank into the water. I am staring down at something in the sodden leaves. A devastating sadness and impotent rage root my feet to the ground. There is a small dog lying lifeless at my feet, its ribs deflated, the skin shrunken to its skull. I can see the edges of a sparkly dog collar that is still around its neck. But there is no tag on it anymore. This is not the first one I have found, nor will it be the last. We live just far enough away from town for people to stop just out of sight of the house and drop off dogs they don’t want anymore. Some we are able to take in or bring to the Animal shelter. Others, like this one, I find too late.

It’s the holidays and we are at home. It’s quiet except for the turn table playing records. The fireplace pops and crackles as it warms the house. The tree is beautiful and it smells like clean air. There are ornaments on it representing the life time of my sister and I. Each year we go out to where the spring burbles up and get a wet bucket of sand to stand the tree in. Once we have it standing, then we wrap tin foil around the base. Gritty sand and snow chunks on the floor, pine boughs poking the back of my neck and ears; its part of the ritual fun. But there are no conversations about meaning beyond the mentioning of the lengthening of the days as we slowly turn back to the sun.

At middle school, I am told by my righteous class mates that I am going to hell simply because I do not believe in God or that Jesus was immortal. These are same kids that wait for the one that is lowest on the totem pole and harass him every day. In health class, I am shocked at their ignorance of basic anatomy and physiology. I try to keep my voice from showing this when answering my teacher’s questions. But my eyebrows want to spring off my face like twin exclamation marks as I take in the blank stares of my classmates.

Years later, I am standing on the deck of a crab boat. The sun is granting us a brief visit. The Bering Sea rocks us gently as we work, the wind is merely bracing. There are 5 small brown land birds that have found us, their tiny feet clasping the webbing of the large pots. We are at least 300 miles from any shore. Their little feathers are getting ruffled by the gusts coming off the water full of spray. Curious, I make my way across the deck. Their small black eyes dart here and there but they make no preparatory moves to leave. I slide my glove off and cup my hand at one of the bird’s feet. He hops into it without hesitation, one eye cocked at me. And there we stay till it isn’t safe anymore. Carefully, I return it to its perch and retreat back across the deck. When, in unison, they all take wing across the large grey and unforgiving ocean, my breath catches and I realize warm tears are joining the sea spray on my face. In that moment, I am the bird, I am the water, I am the sun, I am the crab. I am every living and non-living thing on this small fragile blue marble that ever was or ever will be. Hands loosely at my sides, I open to the moment allowing it to fill me.

And then, it’s over. The sounds of the hydraulics cut through and I reflexively duck as a C-link whizzes by my head. Turning back to my work, I am dazed and full. But there is no one to share it with. The others on this boat did not experience this same moment of grace. I do not risk sullying the moment by trying to explain it.

Almost a decade goes by; I seek a counselor to help with my marriage. Instead, he unveils the truth for me see that what I need is not the marriage, which was lost long ago but a community, a community that I can share, cry, and grow old with. It is just not reasonable that the emotional response that I need to be filled by just one person alone. I realize my kids too need a community to call their own, a place to turn to in good times and bad, a place to learn civic responsibility and compassion.

The first time I set foot into a church holding UU services, I went by myself. We lived near Edmonds at the time. My husband was watching the kids as I set out into unknown territory. I managed to make my way through all the smiling faces to find a seat not too near the back. And then I listened. Reverend Cecelia led me into realms that I previously could only wonder and hope for. She spoke of the good works they were doing and projects yet to come. Then she spoke of hope and the Great Turning. In no time, I was holding back tears.

To have a place where peace, love, and justice can call a home, a place where I can come and practice these ideas to make them a reality in my everyday life while holding firm to my existing values of logic, science, and open discourse is more than I ever hoped possible. It’s an overwhelming reality after spending so many years alone, and so I take small bites from the delicious promise the UU community holds for me and savor each rich morsel.

And that is why I am here.

Seeking fellow companions from the lunatic society

2010-11-21T05:09:00.000-08:00

My friend posted this quote on facebook the other day.

"A truth’s initial commotion is directly proportional to how deeply the lie was believed...When a well-packaged web of lies has been sold gradually to the masses over generations, the truth will seem utterly preposterous and it’s speaker, a raving lunatic.” -Dresden James

I definitely feel like a raving lunatic at times.... most of the time, actually.

I think we are a society that this earth has never seen the like of before. Many cultures have come and gone with the help of our seemingly ingrained ability of excess. Be it from greed, war, ignorance, gluttony, sexuality, you name it. But I'm afraid on a couple of these we have become the ill-fated masters of these lowest of character qualities who have made brilliant toys for our own mass destruction.

For a nation that mistrusts so many things, how is it we don't question the information fed to us from government or business sections? How is it we rile against the corporate excesses of huge bonuses yet fail to investigate how is it they compiled them. Don't we remember any of just our short history? Let alone the worlds? Every time, and I mean every time you allow big business, big government, or big religion to carry on their daily existence without checking up on HOW of how they run things, you are setting up your culture for all the worst of humanity.

Most people will agree to this statement. But when you try to bring an example of something current, in their own country or town, they deny it. Is it shame? What does this disbelief come from? Why are so many willing to be sheep to the slaughter? Is it laziness? The idea that our Grandparents fought all the good fights for us so we can sit down on our ever spreading asses? Didn't they tell us about what the railroad barons did? Or what it was like during the industrial revolution for the masses? Remember what the dark ages where about? Anybody? Somebody??

As we continue to let ourselves be led by our self proclaimed news/entertainment sources, it will only get worse. What they are doing is a huge big business led distraction. Go look at the elephant in the tree, while I steal from you your very health. Come enjoy the Gladiator Games while I steal your crops. Spend all your money on wine women and song because tomorrow will never come. And if it comes, it will be just as fun as today if you buy your booze, your lottery ticket, and the new latest video game. Hurry, you don't want to be left out of the fun!

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. The closer different entities come to this pinnacle of power built with the straw of our many weakening backs, the closer we come to the complete implosion of our society. If we can wake up and stop it now, maybe we don't all have to burn with them. They will fall down, no doubt. But how many of us are they going to take with them?

Scared

2010-10-30T15:33:00.000-07:00

I’m starting to get scared about what I post on FaceBook. I’ve gotten to the point of being scared of just writing that I’m scared. I’m concerned about the backlash from an increasingly emotionally volatile, impassioned public. At one point will the angry mob turn against their friends and neighbors with their misplaced sense of vengeance stemming from imagined crimes that hide the real villainy? By saying it out loud, does that make it more real? Does it make the eventuality of these future horrific events happen faster? If I speak out now pleading for us to use our reason and compassion, when will they plaster a target on my back? Is it already there?

I’ve circled around avoiding writing about it for a couple of months now. The hateful crimes, vile ignorance, and brutal intolerance are steadily climbing in number of incidences and the degree of depravity. So I sit hushed. Yet, it does no good. I can’t ignore the hammering at my door. It is coming. It has come before. We will slip into bloody chaos and only will come back to sanity after many of us have been senselessly killed. What to do? Do I run with my young family and hide them away, waiting for it to blow over. Will that postpone the return to sanity by decades if there are many of us in hiding? Do I quietly gather historical and technical information in attempt to save it before the coming dark ages? This appeals to me greatly. But how to be so sneaky when our every move seems so documented? But if enough of us squirrel away information, maybe some of it will last to see the light of day again. Do I stay and fight? Be one of the first voices to stand against the tyranny knowing fully that it means my life and the life of my family will be short? There is no choice, really. I will keep my eyes and ears open and act accordingly when the time comes. Yet, I hesitate to commit. Is it time already? If I stand at the ready too soon, will my bullets of truth fall short? If I am to die for our collective inalienable rights, I want it to be a notch against tyranny. I do not want to be trod upon without even speaking about which I am being punished for.

Quietly, I count my friends. I confide that need to prepare in intangible ways. Softly gathering forces, carefully I arm myself with knowledge from past struggles; our previous heroes of justice. Always keep in your minds eye that ethereal thing called true freedom. We’ve lost it. We let it fall away for a few conveniences and false security. We let her die.

It all sounds so romantic. But I don’t feel heroic. Not in the least. I feel scared. It is not going to be easy to stand up when the time comes and will I recognize it when it arrives? I am not a planner, nor a schemer. My analytical skills are quit basic if not strong. Yet I don’t need them to feel this tremor. It’s rumbling quite loud enough for most to hear, if one stops for a mere second and turns off the distractions. I have no wish to list the events that are adding to this jarring daily. They hurt me. If I look at them for any length, I need to turn away to keep any composure. It would be easy to loose myself in despair. Why oh why do we have to do this to each other? Again?

I can’t keep it out of my mind the areas of the world where the kind of ultimate brutality that we are falling into has been continuing for generations. Will anything that was valued by our founding fathers survive? I cry inside for our little corner of the world. For what is to come and what has come before us. This generation will witness the insanity of war on American soil. I see it. I feel it. I know it will come.

Thunderstorms in June??

2009-06-18T06:10:00.000-07:00

Being in the rain shadow of the Cascade mountains, we are a semi-arid desert. Normally receiving less than 12 inches of rain a year. If it weren't for the mighty Columbia river and many streams and rivers fed by those mountains, well.. very few of us would be here. As is, we arguably grow the best apples in the world. Cherries, pears, and vineyards also make this area green. Occasionally, usually in the late summer, we will get thunderstorms that can create isolated flash floods. Gully washers is another term for it. Quaint term that describes it well. If you know what a gully is (a small canyon or ravine). This year, we have had a couple of weeks of thunderstorm build up every afternoon usually with rain. Just last friday, it got interesting. Lightning, thunder, heavy rain and hail. The video above is from about 5 hours before the fun. The photos are after the fun. I was a little too busy during moving cars out of danger, calming kids and dogs, unplugging appliances in two houses, etc.

This is the ditch on the top side of our driveway. Notice the small hole at the top of the ditch. It's the old culvert that hasn't been used for about 10 years.

The mud looking down the road

and up. I heard a plow go by and knock the rocks off the road earlier.

Across the road from our house. The small hole on the right the old culvert. The main culvert should be in the middle of that clump of muddy weeds. It's about 2.5 feet across.

This is another culvert farther up our property. It's 4 feet across. Notice the high water mark. It's the lighter color of dried mud on the weeds.

Now the fun. These photos are our neighbors just past the cut up the hill from us. The worst of this storm missed us by 1/4 mile. It wiped out their road, most of their garden, almost got their goats, and buried their well.

It's not unusual to get these storms in August, but it is beyond bizarre to get them in June and for almost 2 weeks straight. Especially since Seattle is experiencing 28 days with no rain. I think it's worth keeping an eye on, if nothing else!

And what do you do after you've gone through such a storm? You dance, you play. .. except I can't upload the video. (?)

These are my sisters! This is me!

2009-01-13T20:10:00.000-08:00

Photo: Hazel Thompson for The New York Times

I read this morning in some detail on what has been happening in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Specifically, Dr. Denis Mukwege, and his work helping women at Panzi Hospital in Bukavu. When I read about what is happening there on a daily basis, I wonder how this situation could have come to be. What thought patterns, what socio-economic situation, what type of government, would lead to this horror? It is the worst that I have read about.

The women Juarez, Mexico. Over 340 dead since 1993, some 500 missing. In fact so many missing they don't bother to keep count anymore. This is in a city of approximately 2 million. There is corruption, there is drug trafficking. But why are the lives of women, most between the ages of 10 and 30, being abused and thrown away?

This is not a new problem. During WWII, hundreds of thousands of women were forced to work in Japanese "comfort stations". Brothels set up by the Japanese Military bringing in women from conquered nations to "service" soldiers. The Japanese government has yet admit ownership of this horrendous practice that continued for over a decade from about 1931 to 1945.

I see these alarming trends everywhere and I can't help but wonder why. Are they true trends or just the growth of my awareness? I think here in the US, the answer is yes, women are being treated in an increasingly negative way. If the value of women flux and flows over time, is is all about brute strength? How does religion play into it? And then at the core of my angst, how could women with their vital and intrinsic role be so abused?? I think the partial answer is that we, as women, have let it happen. We cater to men's wounded needs. Enabling the abuse in a co-dependent way. I think there is no doubt we live in a walking wounded world. I truly believe that if somebody is hurting, everyone is hurting. Who ever is the weakest physically and culturally gets the brunt of it. Women have typically been the breaker wall between the horrors of the world and our children.

How does it start? In subtle ways. Look at humor and what different sections of the population see as funny. Look at what is deemed sexy for both genders. Look at the role that women are allowed in religion and the work place. Look at advertisements. What I see is women reduced to the simple role of producers of children and sex toys. Not the the loving nurturing glue that keeps families together. Not the mysterious and alluring goddesses of immortal lust. Not the powerhouse of intellectual strength that so many women poses. Just glorified incubators and sex toys with no more brains nor feelings than what we allow the family dog to have.

You might have picked up some irritation here. You were meant to. This is a very frustrating thing! I do feel like the odds are so against most women around the world. And on top of that, there seems to be so little awareness as to what is happening out there. So I am asking, please, look around you. Are the women that you live with undervalued? Do you see advertisements that portray women as sex objects only while men are given a broader range of abilities and roles? If you allow any sub-group of your society to be undervalued or demeaned, you are opening the door to more violent repercussions. Something to think about.

Who is this girl?

2008-12-08T06:37:00.001-08:00

At first, nothing of interest really. Two dogs, a girl, and an old truck. But I know this girl, therefore it is different for me. Balanced on an electrical spool, there she is squatting yet somehow remaining linear. In the beginning stages of full womanhood, there is no outward sign of the awkwardness that undoubtedly she feels. And what an interesting dog! Is that a blue eye staring back? Yes, it is. The dog seems almost as linear as the girl. And no wonder, she could climb trees! So why are they up on that spool? The girl is teaching the dog tricks. So there they are posed together, leaning ever so gently on each other against falling off. And that fluffy collie, what a happy fella! It looks to me like someone asked him to sit and stay but he decided differently just as the picture was taken. The rest is pretty plain. The tree is just a tree. The wood is just wood. The shed behind? A chicken coop. The truck, just a truck. But that girl; I'd almost forgotten she existed. The relaxed expression on her face, even if she's perched what most of us would consider precariously. The relaxed grace of her hand. Well, I'm glad I remembered her now. The sadness to come isn't there in this photo. Her dog is alive and healthy. She hasn't left dance because of a militant control freak. The worst years dealing with her mother are yet ahead. Yes, I am glad I remember now.

Boulonais Draft horses

2008-11-13T13:02:00.000-08:00

My Mom went to Costco and she was in the mood. She came home with quite a few things but the one I was most interested in was the book on horses (I'll get the name and author). It had wonderful photographs of many, if not all, the different breeds in the world. Sleek to odd: they were wonderful. But as usual, I gravitated to the work horses. Strength, endurance, massive size yet gentle natures. I could go on but that isn't my point. There was a quote in the book. Something along the lines that if we cherish our old buildings, if we preserve our historical landmarks, then we need to preserve the draft horse. Because they are how we built everything. In there it mentioned that the Boulonais was an endangered species. First I had to get over the concept of a domestic animal categorized this way. But this statement resonated with me. Especially in light of our coming economic, shall I say, shift? I don't know that we will seriously need the use of such wonderful creatures on a daily basis again. But watching my Dad tear up over memories as a young man working with horses, it made me wish it could be so. We give names to our trucks and tractors but they could never replace a living being. Let alone one that worked so hard with you to achieve goals that only you could recognize. But did it without hesitation (most of the time), with full heart. I think that is why we love horses. Their ability to throw their whole being into an endeavor. And look so magnificent doing it.

I'd love to honor the knowledge and traditions. I'd love to feel the power behind those bulging muscles. Dad says there is nothing like it. I do remember the tractor pull that was held here in town when I was a little squirt. The local John Deer tractor dealer got together with on of our neighbors up the road from us farther into the hills who still farmed with draft horses. I think he had Belgians. In anycase, for those unfamiliar, a tractor pull is a contest to see which "tractor" can pull the most weight. They hooked up a orchard tractor to a pallet of cement blocks. And then would see if it could pull it a certain distance across the dirt parking lot. Then the horses got a chance at it. Then they add more blocks till somebody came out the winner. It didn't take very long at all before the tractor was done for. Then it is fun time! They wanted to see how much the horses could pull. Finally, the horses woke up from their doze. It was truly a moment of controlled power, and obvious bond between horse and master. Who won? Well of course, the horses did. They ran out of blocks!

Step one on how to overcome our consumerism

2008-11-13T11:54:00.000-08:00

(This is an edited version of an email I sent a friend. I thought it could be useful for anyone suddenly caught in our down turning economy)

Well, here's my take on it. I think the biggest trick is to put yourself in the mind set they had during the last depression. Waste not want not. A penny saved is a penny earned. Don't buy anything unless you can use it repeatedly throughout the years. And don't buy it unless you can't borrow it or get it for free (check out Freecycle.org in your area).

You can address food issues with two factors; one-buying pre-made food is more expensive. Two- it happens to be worse for your health as well. Which makes you make bad decisions. If you look at the price per pound and then look at how dense the product is per nutritional value, you'll see that a box of dry cereal is a waste of money. Most people like bacon, have you found the packages of the ends at the butcher counter? They taste great and are just odd shaped. Plus at least 2 dollars cheaper a pound. We do have Cheerios for my oldest because I've found she is niacin deficient (growing pains and mood swings) and it is an easy way to make sure she has enough. But those are for her only. Orion only snacks on them on occasion. And I stay away from them because I don't want to waste them.

First -You have to stop spending on EVERYTHING to figure out where you are at. So that means only transportation to and from work, and perishables for the home like milk and eggs. I bet, if you set a NO spending for a week, even two weeks, you could eat and live quite comfortably with what is in your house already. No buying ANYTHING extra for the kids. No ice cream, no deserts! They have all they need anyway. No coffee, tea, creamer, chocolate, and beer for the adults either. No picking up snacks because you are away from home and didn't bring anything. Or, because the kids don't like what you have. They'll learn to like it, and you'll learn to pack.

Two - you need to keep all your receipts and enter them into an excel, notepad, money program, etc. Figure out what you are spending money on. You can guess on how much you need to budget for food and gas, etc. But until you do this, you won't actually know. Do it for a few months at least if you haven't done it before. It will take that long before everyone is remembering to bring home the receipts all the time. Then you can just spot check now and then when you think you need to. For now, make sure you know what is going out a month to debtors and UT. That will help narrow it down to what is left for the flexible household stuff. Oh, here's a big one- Only carry Cash! Don't use your cards or check book. You'll be much more aware of what you are spending and when you are overspending. It will also help with budgets. It will be concrete. Here is what you need to pay the electric bill, here is what you need for your gas tank this week, and here is your allowance for food on the go. You should never pay more than $5 for a meal on the go. If you are, you are paying for junk and too much of it.

It's really important to look at all the debts you are paying on and get rid of them. You can start with any and all department store cards, credit cards etc. This one may be hard, but no online subscriptions, no magazines, no movie rentals etc. And no charitable donations except a set amount once a year! Don't get carried away at xmas! Give only to one or two people and only people that actually need something! Give one gift to each of the kids. Try and get Santa to deliver gifts from other elves at what ever house you are celebrating at to make a bigger impact with less stuff. I found it is actually easier to focus on just one debt at a time and dump everything you have into it till it's gone. Instead of a little every month to 20 of them. You should probably look into what is involved in bankruptcy. Even if just to arm yourself for the future. Our economy is tanking rapidly (i'll expand on this later). The world is going to be affected by this. One thing that you need to just cement in your head. You have been living above your means. You don't have the money to spend. Make your budget. Define a 5 year plan. Once you have that, you'll see that you don't any excess money to spend on the big fat X. Once you get used to NOT spending money. It is easier. So just keep saying over and over again, I DON"T HAVE MONEY. Till you get used to going into a store and ONLY getting what is on your list. Don't look left or right. Just get what you need and get out. It will feel great when you have the kind of security you really need - a savings account. The whole consumerism society is addicted to spending money. You have to break that. BUT it is like food addictions, you still have to eat so you have to be twice as vigilante because you can't just eradicate the thing that you are addicted to.

I know that logical arguments around food are difficult in the best of time. BUT if you eat simply, you'll all feel better. And when you feel better, more solutions to your problems will be found. Getting everyone off the sugar high's and lows will make a huge difference in your house hold. The multivitamin might also make a noticeable affect. It sure does in our household. All you can do is do the right thing for you. And hope that you can be a positive influence on the rest of the household. Get stubborn, get mean if you have to. But you know you have to do something different!

Here's my basic grocery list :
Breakfast:
plain old fashioned oatmeal
flour
butter
sugar
milk
eggs
yogurt
cheerios
raisins
sausage - on weekends

Lunch and Dinner:
flour tortillas (I like the spinach ones)
black beans
salsa
humus
top ramen
pickles
carrots
yellow and green onions
garlic
broccoli
green peas
rice
chicken
plain macaroni
fish on friday
squash
bananas
peanut butter
jam
bread
cheese
fruit leather
crackers

Supplements for me and the kids:
a good multivitamin and fish oil

Shop at your local Grocery Outlet or equivalent. You'd be surprised at the amount of organic foods AND cheap prices! But you have to be careful. Places like this specialize in pre-made stuff. Stick to your list. And keep looking for the least amount of processing. Focus on veggies and then proteins. We get starches so easily, that will happen all on its own. Go to the bread outlet store and stock up on whole grain everything for just a few dollars. With our chest freezer, I stop there about every 2 months and get almost all our starch needs there for 20$ including breads, english muffins, granola, and crackers. I read an article in Mothering Magazine about what a professor at Bastyr thought was a balanced diet? It was very insightful including what she termed digestives; something that is either raw, fermented, cultured, or pickled. That made a light bulb go on for me. I've been reading over the years about what happens when the Ph in the body is off. From yeast infections to cancor sores, to digestive issues, etc. Well, these digestives help balance Ph and microbes as well. Makes perfect sense to me. I also was reading at Earthclinic.com about an apple cider diet. It's easy as pie and works wonders on sugar cravings. I've tried it for a week now. Just put a splash of apple cider vinegar in your drinking water and sip that through out the day. I feel a marked difference.

Take it a step at a time. You know you have to act but do what seems easiest and work up to the rest. Try and work to get concesus in your house but don't let anyone's refusal stop you. Control what you can and try to get a hold of the rest later. This is YOUR future. You have to grab ahold of it for you and your kids.

Yes, I Can

2008-11-13T11:38:00.000-08:00

Yes, we can
An eastern Washington perspective

I am an unemployed white single mother of 2. I have been a Barack supporter since January 08 when I heard is speech in New Hampshire. His words and sentiment rang true with me then. And now, November 5, 2008, we can all see just exactly how many others felt the same. Finally, we are not alone in our struggles. We have a Unifier that will lead us through the strength found in diversity. Not the hate of division. We have again somebody that will gather us in brotherly love to do the work that so desperately needs to be done.

My intellect told me he would probably prevail last night. But after 8 years of everything going wrong, my hope for the future was rather timid in comparison to the deluge of faith I feel now. Yes, we can overcome the obstacles set before us. But more importantly, yes, I can. I can find a job, I can get health coverage, I can build a secure and stable life for me and my kids. Where justice for all can be found. It won't happen overnight. But I have no doubts now about how many others out there are willing to work towards the same goals I have, together. No more is it me, and them. It is US in the United States of America.

My hope was so disillusioned that even as I tried to grasp the reality that Barack Obama and his team of ardent supporters had really landed the highest position in the country, I was sure this meant we had lost our governor here in Washington State. That the smear campaign against Christine Gregoire would have done their damage even with the mounting evidence that Dino Rossi is a crook. But, it didn't. She is our Governor just as Barack is our President. And by a margin that cannot be questioned. So I must thank every single voter out there for not only paying attention to this historic president campaign but also to issues here at home. We even managed to vote in measure 1000 -Doctor assisted suicide. Our death with dignity law.

Things can never be 100% fair. But we can sure work at it so the scales are not tipped so ridiculously in favor of one sector of our nation. I have grown up here in the Wenatchee Valley. I have seen the influx of immigrant workers from Mexico and beyond come and take residence here. I have always respected the struggles they have faced, even if I could only understand partially. I am an outsider in their culture just as they are to mine. But I never thought this meant we couldn't be friends. That we couldn't work together on common issues. Yet, I have been rebuffed because the paleness of my skin.

My daughter now attends the same grade school I did. When I was there, there were only a few Hispanic kids on our bus who didn't know English. I would try to protect them from the bullies and to be friendly. This was hampered by our language barrier. By the time I left high school, there was a sizable community of Hispanics but they kept to themselves. An increasing gulf opening up between us. Now, my girl's class is over 60% Hispanic. I had to wonder how things would be different. They are but now things are somewhat reversed. Even with dual language classes, my girl who usually makes friends everywhere she goes, isn't getting the invites to birthday parties. And only a few Hispanic families will talk with me. The teachers are trying to address this. They held a dual language night at school. There was a good turn out from our class. But although there should have been a pretty even split of English speaking families and Spanish speaking families, it wasn't. 90% were Spanish speaking. I see both of my children making overtures to all kids, no matter their differences. I will keep encouraging it in them and myself. I can only hope, that audacity to hope, that the next time I make overtures of friendship, whom ever it is on the receiving side can meet me half way.

I find it very awe inspiring how having one event, one action from one person can change the destinies of so many people. You are right, Mr. Barack Obama, to be humble in your achievements. Yes, you have been elected our next president. But I know that you understand how many people are relying on you to lead the way to a better world. But you are not alone in this endeavor. You have millions of people just like me who have so much potential, so much to give. We just needed change we could believe in. Yes, we can, Mr. President elect. Yes, I can.

My time in the Bering sea as an Observer

2008-10-31T14:32:00.000-07:00

12 years ago in January, I turned my back on the world and fell off the end into Dutch Harbor. My first taste of reality was bile in my throat from the rough ride on the jet. The so called airport has the shortest runway in the United States and requires that any pilot attempting to land there carry a special license. One side of it is a mountainous rock wall, 2 other sides, water. If you make the landing without loosing your meal, the fresh air that greats you on the tarmac is likely to blow you down anyway if you are unprepared. Such is a typical greeting for that Isle.

Waiting inside the tiny terminal, I was a bit daunted by the towering bulks of the men around me. All different shades of rough but friendly, they looked ready for everything I wasn’t. Little did I know at the time that in the next 2 and half years I would get more injuries and scars than in my entire life up to that point. There is no way to prepare yourself, or someone else for that matter, for the testing of mettle, muscle, and strength that comes with working within the commercial crab fleet in Alaska. I was just as eager to be on the way as the crews but for vastly different reasons. My paycheck was going to be the same no matter the catch. And it wasn’t a sizable one at that. Most new people, or greenhorns if you prefer (I know why they are green but do I want to know what is with the horn?), wanted to know if they had what it takes to be a man and walk the walk. I wanted to prove that I was a capable woman – to have an experience that would either make or brake me. At that point, I really didn’t care which.

Never one to be cooped up inside for very long, I’d take walks into town. The bunkhouse was out in Captain’s Bay, the furthest of any from what passes as a town out there. The horizontal wind that battered ice pellets against my face brought the thought again that I needed to upgrade my gear. I had to laugh but even that proved a bit of a challenge as the wind tried to stuff it back down my throat. I soon learned that Dutch is probably one of the few places in the states where it is not only safe to hitch hike, it might save your silly ass.

My first night aboard was also my first hands on experience with how dangerous boats can be. We hadn’t even left port yet. The engineer took a tumble down the stairs and cracked 3 vertebrae. He had to be strapped into a life basket and craned from boat to boat as we were tied up three boats out. I had heard him fall when most others were too asleep to notice. That was the first of many times that boat captains and crews learned how useful my all around attentiveness could be. After frantic phone calls, a replacement was found and we head off into the Bering Sea a minute after midnight. Excited and loving the wind, I stayed out on the bow feeling the sloppy rhythm of a boat for the first time. I still enjoy it even when I am sea sick. Most of the time, no one knew that I was green at the gills. But that first trip, I knew that I hadn’t been able to permanently keep down more than half of a English biscuit and a half a cup of tea in 3 weeks. After that, it got much better. That is, until the new engineer didn't realized the septic pump was wired backwards and the second story head flooded down into the galley. It was rough weather ta-boot. I have never used so much bleach willingly in my entire life.

I learned to walk again on that first boat. The sea tossed me about as easily as a if I was a pillow. Too bad I never landed like one. I marveled at the experienced crew. They walked as if we were at dock. I was on this first boat for 60 straight days and was black and blue the whole time. It was a catcher processor meaning it cooked and packed what it caught. Since they worked around the clock, there were 2 shifts. Since there was only one of me, I worked 18. So continually tired, cold, and wet, I tried to stay ahead of a crew that seemed hell bent to make it hard on me, and them in the end. Because even though I was new, I kept catching them trying to violate the rules. Well, I've always been a by-the-book kinda girl and I knew if I slacked at all, they would make me suffer all the more. So, when I saw them stowing halibut under the sorting table, I'd have to document it. When they threw garbage overboard, I'd have to document that too. When I found too many small crab in the hamper, I'd have to document that as well. It was rough because I lived with these guys. And they were used to what is termed a “rack” observer – one that does all his work from bed. So the first month was particularly hard until everyone decided the easiest course of action was to just go by the book. This breaking in period was consistent on every boat I got onto. They all had to see if I'd hold my ground. As soon as it was discovered that behind the cute smile was a backbone derived from my Grandmother's of steel, they accepted me. But I never fit in. Being a female “fish cop” there wasn't anyway I could.

Through all this, the boat pounded and bucked it's way through the stormy sea. I would take my breaks wedged into a chair in the wheel house or on calmer days out on the bow watching the waves and the birds dance over them. I've never seen colors like that. Every shade of blue. From gun metal to palest baby blue, and such clear teals. Against skies just as variable. Mostly stormy and cloudy but occasionally the sun would break out and I'd cry. And not just because the wind was whipping at my eyes. Those images, forever locked inside is what I remember most.

Sure I remember the guys. With a clarity that only comes with isolation. A good portion of them blur into one common strain that seems to accumulate out there with individual quirks. Names, I have long since forgotten except a few. But not their spirit. Remember that song, “Where have all the Cowboys gone?”. I know, they went to sea crab fishing in Alaska. Wanderlust, adventure seeking, bravado, quick reflexes, strong backs, and mighty endurance on harsh seas. These are the explorers of yesterday. The ones that headed to lands unknown. The ones to whom risk is just something to be quickly studied and then plowed through. Out there, they are very full of life. Annoyingly so at times. These same guys that laugh at heavy seas and getting slammed around the deck are the very ones that thought it would be funny to dump bleach on my rain gear, or dump out the vegetables that were for dinner. (OK, I need to let you know, I was a vegetarian at the time before that has a real impact). They'd try to bait me into a no-win argument about anything just to see if they could make me mad. There was also the quiet ones that never yelled, never talked boastfully in the galley, that the wheels in their brains never stopped churning. Where are they all now? I can only guess that they are either still up there, scattered like the wind over the land, or under the waves finally at peace.

I spent over 2 years out there. I loved it and hated it all at once. But it's left it's mark on me in more than one way. The scars and aches from it I hardly think about it. The soul wrenching jagged beauty of it I carry with me, a cold hot ember in my soul.

View on my marriage

2008-10-31T14:17:00.000-07:00

We are getting married in a few days. I’m not sure what that means. My foot hurts too but that is a sporadic thing and I am used to it. It doesn’t mean much when it hurts, besides maybe that gravity works. So what does it mean that we are getting married? Not much, one would suppose since it is on the same level as my foot hurting. So maybe you’d understand that when I think about getting hitched, I think about a new pair of shoes.

It will be a nice thing, I think, to stand there and have the Judge say in some serious ceremonial way that we are permanently tying the lines mooring us together with a few family and friends to see us do this slightly silly thing. We are feeding them before as if it is just a gathering. Which it is. Why the hype? When if you are going to marry someone, you should know for some time and be very comfortable with this. So they will come to eat, watch, and graciously hit the road.

The idea of our wedding night is a strange thing too. See, he has been home and in my bed for some time. I have been able to “get some” pretty much whenever I wanted. But that night is supposed to be special. Now I bought some gear that I know he’d approve of on any other night– meaning it makes me look like a bad girl. But what if we are just feeling more tender than lustful being there really isn’t too many forbidden fruits to be found between us. The lady in the store suggested white. But I am no virgin and neither am I without blemishes on my character. Ivory white, creamy peach, icy blue, yes. But money, that thing that slows us down from going berserk, is scarce. Then it is naked again that we flop our bodies down on a bed that might be just a little too used to us. Carpentry skills might be handy at this juncture. I have been waiting for him to fix it. That seems a little silly when it is me who it bothers. So if I did go to all the fuss of finding the right outfit to be coyly ravished in and the bed simply falls to pieces, I might be fairly put out. But if it is just us as we crawl into the sack with no pretenses and staged affects, it will be a funny page in our memorabilia book if the bed decides that it has enough of our night time rituals.

in answer to -striving for simplicity and fullfillment

2007-02-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

The only example I have that I try and incorporate into our lives is my father's parents. Through out their entire lives, they worked hard. Harder than most of us can imagine. They kept their family together - twin boys and my father. They survived decades of farming and remained financially solvent with money left over. And they were known as pillars of the community for their generosity and help. They housed numerous strangers and fed anybody that happened by at mealtime. And with my Grandmother's heavenly dinner rolls and biscuits, it wasn't unusual to have a crowd around the table. If somebody couldn't afford to dig a well, my grandfather was their to witch (totally cool to watch!) it and dig it for them. If they needed to be plowed out in the winter time, they'd go and do it with a simple hot meal in hand. And yet, their lives weren't frantic or rushed. They time to talk for a bit to stop by a neighbor to see how they were doing.

There are two popular sayings that I think incorporate what many of us are striving for. -Live simply so others can simply live. Our meals here at our house have gotten quite basic lately with our budget constraints. But you know what I've noticed? We are eating better. I can only remember my grandmother using salt, pepper, cinamon and mayonnaise - albeit not all at once!- to season her foods. I think I've decided to stick with just one "ethnicity" or type of food and forget about trying to learn how to do great Chinese, Thai etc. Sauces are expensive and in the end, complicated. Good food doesn't need to take hours of slaving. Your friends in Peru, how many different types of food did they eat? I bet it was very basic and very good and you were satisfied. Why? because it was good food and there was nothing else to complicate things.

Just like the absence of TVs microwaves, etc in Peru. Without all those modern conveniences, you actually have more time on your hands for what really matters. I'm still very glad we don't watch cable but that hasn't stopped us from watching a lot of movies. You've reminded me of this. I think I'll put back in place the only one movie a day for the whole family. That should be plenty. and what would happen, how much time would we have if we limited it to once a week? Once a month? Imagine the conversations and games that would take place instead. I bet we would get outside more. Talk with our neighbors. Which reminds me, our neighbors have a teenage girl. Their house got TP-ed last night. I want to go out and help them when they notice but now I am afraid the family is going to miss it because we are watching Chicken Run instead. The mighty power button is awesome. But we have control! Don't we? And - Think globally act locally. It requires a lot of effort to find out who needs help on your travels, but what about just down the street? Or across town? I know that my Grandparents had time to help others because they didn't go far to do it. Enrichment for our kids is hard these days since we don't have that much to put them to work at home with. So there is a lot of thought t here about what would be good for mind body and spirit. But I think just one scheduled activity outside the house a week should be plenty. Spontaneous play dates within the neighborhood would be perfect - oh for the day the kids can run down the block themselves to their friends.

Another thing I admired about my Grandmother was her ability to get rid of clutter. Her house was simple and small yet held so many wonderful memories. And when she moved out, there was plenty of things that needed to find a home - no shortage of keepsakes. My Dad actually found a rock he had treasured as a child: a rock. And he took it home with him. Not a nintendo. It seemed almost every visit she was passing on something frivolous that she thought a child would have more fun with than her keeping it. I loved it because I never had to worry about getting her a gift. If it wasn't practical and well thought out, she would really rather you didn't. I have given her a light switch plate and I made her a blanket. Both, I am proud to say she has kept. She kept a neat house, not spotless. Which is easier to take care of! Our obsession with clutter really ties us down. If I could just brave it and get rid of all my crafty stuff. I hardly use it. Casia makes the best cards anyway. But my sewing, I am on the verge of making that practical and fun. I look forward to getting more experienced. Speaking of, I think I'll sign off while Dave is out with the kids - Casia riding her bike. Before they arrive with a skinned knee and a hungry baby.

My friend, your struggle is universal to those of us living in a community unconnected from the physical realities of life. They are artificial communities. Those of us that realize we are missing something very valuable have our work set out for us. Hugs. We need it.