“Alaska lulled me here on some sort of fantasy.” I thought as I ran up and down the hills of the residential streets. I pushed myself to scale them because I am trying to keep up my fitness from my Santa Clara days. I want to be strong and I want to feel good. And that is why I came to Ketchikan, to feel the joy and bliss of what I remember I felt when I walked this island all the 2016 season long. But come to find out: Joy and Bliss are the names of new tank-sized cruise ships, not the bubble of feeling that one inhabits when they step back onto the sordid pavement of this island. Always construction, roadblocks and port security holding up stop signs. I don’t belong.
When I came to Alaska I had to embrace the fact that things might have changed. I forgot that “things” included me. But there’s an oddness to being surrounded by water and ships: it’s impossible to feel like you’re not inside of a snow globe and that nothing ever changes and people don’t come and go, and that a place so waterproof is still permeable. In my mind the elements and figures remain. En cambio I could come back and leave and change and bring my emotional discoveries with me like tiny gems to unpack. But that’s not how any of it works at all.
Ketchikan was the first promise life made to me that I could be happy, indefinitely. And now I see that Ketchikan was not a part of the promise at all. Ketchikan was the backdrop upon which I made such a transaction with myself. But I didn’t know how to recognize my strength at the time so I chalked it up to location, not myself. Not my own capacity.
Ketchikan is where I started writing for this blog. Ketchikan is where I started drinking like a sailor (but didn’t work on a boat). Ketchikan is where I acted in a play after many years away from the stage. Ketchikan is where I got used to getting out of bed at the 6 o’clock hour to cart tourists around the docks, swipe a time card, wear bright green and pay too much for vegetables, rent and crappy internet. Ketchikan is where I ate leftover salmon dip for breakfast (if I ate breakfast at all), befriended the other dock reps and learned how shore excursions on cruise ships work. Ketchikan is where I did some hiking, learned how to operate a radio and realized how important community is.
What a strange and beautiful pre-cursor to the Peace Corps experience which, in and of itself (a phrase in English that I really love), was like living on a quirky island with unexpected characters, weather, dynamics and responsibility. (Local) people noticed me in Ketchikan “oh she’s new” but not like Santa Clara at all. I may have been strange in Ketchikan but I was truly foreign in Santa Clara de todo sentido. I was foreign in Ketchikan for going to the Peace Corps, and I was foreign in Santa Clara for being in the Peace Corps. And now I am back in Ketchikan and the island feels foreign to me.
What feels more foreign is who I was while I lived in Ketchikan. I was at the crest of my 29th year just opening up like an oyster shell to the possibility of unexpected joy in existing, flirting with handsome fishermen and telling everyone about my attraction and depositing little pieces of my heart between the boat barn, Oyster Ave and Salmon Landing. Now I am 33 and on the other side of a mountain, I’ve given up drinking for the year and I am fluent in a new language (Spanish)! And knowledgeable in another (K’iche’). Some of my muscles are stronger for that experience and my perspective is wider which makes the island feel smaller. I didn’t expect it to feel small at all. And I forgot how cool it is. I can’t believe I brought beach sandals and a crop top.
But my muscles aren’t what I thought, either, faced with the challenge of chasing Claire Winzenburg up Deer Mountain to traverse to Blue Lake. By the time we crested Deer Mountain and still had a ways to go, I worried over the state of my running shoes (a recent gift from my Mom) that I wanted to keep sparkling clean. But there wasn’t space in my carry-on for hiking shoes and running shoes. And aren’t shoes meant to be dirty if your life is gonna be good?
As we pushed off and up the most difficult hike on the island (from what I remember), we chatted about all nature of things: privilege, Guatemala, my host family, our shared summer in Ketchikan, who is where and what they are doing and how they are doing and the spaces in between. Claire is a nature freak and loves to recognize all the foliage of Ketchikan. We stopped and ate some tart, small berries on the path. I regurgitated a phrase I learned on a tour: “Red and in a bunch and you’ll be dead by lunch.” But these were non-poisonous blueberries, no harm no foul. Some reminiscing caused me to think of words in English that hadn’t passed through my synapses in three years.
But I also never hiked, excuse me, traversed with Claire before. Off and on I wondered about Gentleman Caller and his hiking habit up volcanoes and mountains in the Western Highlands of Guatemala. My heart felt a few sharp tinges of pain at the loss of calling such a person mine. Heartbreak. So I examined my feeling (sadness) and then I told myself what I always tell myself: “You won’t always feel like this.” That is what I told myself in Guatemala, morning after tortured morning during the initial weeks after the split. And I kept moving up and down and through the path until the sting was a little behind me. And I remembered how far I’ve come. Hiking is good for such reminders.
We stopped at a shelter, a triangular structural suggestion against the sky which invited guests to camp. I signed the guest book, specifying that we did not stay the night but we did enjoy the light from the window. We carried on and I could feel myself hitting my limit. Claire thought we had made it to Blue Lake but we weren’t there yet. Eventually I waved my white flag between talks about white privilege, placing morality on food, fatness and the realities of disordered eating, among sharing some words in K’iche’ and some words in Spanish. We ate our sandwiches on dignified rocks and Claire shared her cherries with me. We did not leave the pits behind. We headed back. I was tired and I could feel it. I told Claire: “Turns out I am a hiker, not a traverser.”
As we started down I made a point to share these two phrases with Claire: “Gracias y con permiso” and “Buen provecho.” I guess this is how I will carry the weight of the Peace Corps experience, I think to myself: I will share the impact that Guatemala had on me through moments with friends on hikes, excuse me, traverses, as I traverse the transition from foreigner to resident again.
As we hiked down the spiky rocks and smooth, slippery surfaces and muddy passes I thought again about love and my future in romantic partnership. I thought about how odd it all is. Love and marriage: are the two even possible? And better yet: are the two even necessary if a person doesn’t want children? But what’s the best way to avoid a crushing heartbreak? I wonder. I should insert the phrase ‘for me’ at the end of that query because it is and will always be determined on an individual basis. And I rambled about those musings while we moved through space and time up and down the path. Claire and I came to the conclusion that it is best for me to live in the moment because the future is unknown: at 25 or 33, respectively. And I asked what bushwhacking was, as I never knew.
Bushwhacking is hiking off of designated paths. It’s like going rogue except that you don’t want to be lost, you want to find new things. Bushwhacking and finding love have a lot in common, I mused.
My legs felt a little bit like spikes and rubber. I don’t remember feeling old like that before. 29 (my age in 2016) and 33 (my age currently) aren’t the same, femur and spine, in case you wanted to know. When we finally reached the end, we raised our arms in triumph and stretched our legs while we responded to a short survey put on by the forest service. The interviewer was really friendly and tried to laugh politely at all of our responses. She asked: “Have you all traveled through this forest on a guided tour?” and I looked at Claire: “How should we answer that?” And she said: “Well I work for a tour company so I do all the time.” How many times would you say you’ve traveled through this forest in the last year? And Claire responded: “Probably 399.” I couldn’t contain my laughter seeing as there are 365 days in a year. But that might be how many days I felt like I was traveling on camionetas in Guatemala even though it was definitely an 8th of that.
After quick showers and makeup and the rest of her cake-from-scratch in our bellies and oohing and aahing over each other’s dresses, we set off for the dinner and a show next to Cape Fox Lodge. I don’t remember the name of the building but my bets are on Civic Center?
Through the evening I felt so tired from the traverse. I really wanted to blend into the wallpaper because I was so tired, and I hate small talk, but I was surprised to find that many folks recognized me and I recognized them. I also wrestled throughout the night with the fact that this ticket had cost me $50 which is a certain blow to the RPCV, graduate student budget. And then I hated myself for struggling with it because I was supporting the arts and I was supporting Ketchikan and I was eating crab which I’d never eaten in 2016. Nothing was more unsettling, not even the $50, than when Claire said: “Fisherman #1 is at 10 o’clock!” followed by “A lady is with him!”
For those who have not read my Conversations in Alaska series, you should. And if you don’t, here is a quick recap: I fell-in-like with two fishermen while I lived here who my friends and I labeled Fisherman #1 and Fisherman #2 as a joke and an expression of power over the patriarchy (Bless God). I tried to forget about the couple and enjoy the show, but do you remember what it’s like to have a crush so hard that you put a mental bubble over whatever part of the room the person is located and it slowly drains all of your attention and energy by the end of the occasion? It’s like you can feel their presence, like an EPIRB, the entire time.
This was my first time eating crab and it was kind of like singing for your supper: you had to do a lot of work. The strippers came around giving us kisses on cheeks and I found myself exhausted having to buy into their trope. I blame it on the hike and wanting to be invisible but I’m not sure what to blame it on. I had one lipstick kiss on my cheek by the time the show started. The coast guards we sat with were definitely targeted because they were two attractive men without dates. I said to the table, as I am inclined to do on this island: “Well aren’t we an attractive table? I’ll say it!”
By the time the lights dimmed I was stuffed. Claire was so funny, making comments throughout the show, singing along and laughing together with me at the ridiculousness of this meller-dramer.
I marveled at Claire’s ease of conversation and her generous laughter and quick-witted comments. God, this woman. What a wonder of the world Claire Winzenburg. The table shared bottles of wine but I was content with the water. I noticed one coastie was drinking Barq’s cream soda. It comforted me to have sober company. When I got up to fill my second plate, I heard “Natalie?” as I began to leave the buffet line. I turned to see a familiar face from the dock in 2016: Heidi. She said this was her last summer and I asked her about a mutual friend, Brie, who is in Colorado. I was suddenly distracted when I saw that Fisherman #1 was on the other side of the buffet. Oh God. Do I stop and talk while he shovels potatoes onto his plate or ignore him completely? I can use my chat with Heidi as a cover for walking away. I gave her a hug and said how nice it was to see her. I watched the show and chuckled at the lighthearted, unsophisticated humor of the 53 year-old tradition. I lingered after the show to see if F1 and I might run into each other but by the time I finished meeting some of Claire’s friends (ucgh small talk) he was gone.
I slept like an overworked donkey. I purchased my iced coffee from my favorite coffee shack, Brewed Awakening, and galloped about the Allen Marine office taking note of the young, doe-eyed doc reps. I listened to the general chaos of the logistics of a multi-ship day and made my usual jokes with the staff. I printed off my standby boarding pass for the next day and waited for Sarah and I to confirm plans.
And then I decided it was time. I texted F1. “When can we catch up?” He told me to meet him at the dock. I went down to his slip, nervous, awkward, and asked around: “Is Fisherman #1 around?” and the men wearing xtra-tuffs and denim said: “Who?” and I told them his name. “Oh he’ll be back, he’s at the fuel dock.” I sat on the picnic table and felt my spine support me, stronger than ever, as I waited and busied myself by writing a post-card. Eventually he pulled up to the dock and said ‘Natalie-not-Saxman!’ as he tied off his boat. I noticed it was much bigger than his small boat from 2016. Are those called skiffs? I’m not the person to ask. As he got out of the boat, I said: “I hear you’re married. Why did I even come?!” He slackened his arms: “Married? No.. Dating, yes.” If you’re just now tuning it, I will tell it to you:
The whole town seemed engrossed in our plot. At least the whole tour company. That was my fault. I called his office and asked for his number, expressing my interest as a “very important client” in front of the company. His boss denied me his phone number but did provide Fisherman #1 with mine. By the end of the afternoon it seemed the whole town knew. And the rest of the summer I ghosted him out of sheer embarrassment until the last three weeks of the season. Eventually we kissed and he told me that it was clear we felt a certain way about each other. I wasn’t sure what that meant but it shook my insides like an earthquake from my belly button. I’d never had anyone look at me that way. This wasn’t love but some cocktail of whimsy, romance and intense sort of…. appreciation. And sometimes, sometimes, that is more enticing than ephemeral love. At my departure in 2016 he gave me a small magazine cut-out of two people dancing that said: “Thanks for the dance” and one of his old t-shirts. It was a t-shirt with the logo of the company he worked for, the company I called to ask for his number. He said t-shirts were emotional currency for him. (He borrowed that phrase from me, don’t be too impressed).
The legend of Natalie-not-Saxman and Fisherman #1. But this was four summer seasons ago, and Fisherman #1 had a lady and I had made a piñata of my heart in Central America. Children were still eating the candy. The sun beat down on us and blood coursed through my brain as we caught up at the stained and re-stained picnic table. He said: “I thought you’d never come back.” I asked: “Why?” because I genuinely didn’t know. And I still don’t understand his answer nor do I remember his exact words but something along the lines of: “I thought this would be a one-time place for you..” but I reminded him that’s not how I am when a place makes an impact on me. I’m too sentimental not to return. I joked that I would sing at his wedding, whatever he wanted. He laughed.
I told him about service, Tucson, my thoughts on the border, my thoughts on white privilege and how this visit was going. He sighed with heaviness as I tried to paint the thick layers of realization that came from my PC experience. His physical reaction embodied how I feel when I add it all up: a heavy sigh and face in hands. I looked at him and said: “You really stick with a person” and it’s true. Plus I have a very sticky capacity for crushes. I am incapable of hopping from crush to crush. I dive-deep into it all and have to come back up for air. That’s why it doesn’t happen very often, I have to choose when I want to submerge.
Eventually I told him, so as to dispel any pressure that he thinks I am waiting for him or heartbroken over him: “And on top of it all I fell in love.” He raised his eyebrows: “You did?” I told him a little bit but not much. Just enough to know that this relationship was a recent feature of my emotional topography. He told me a bit about his plans, in between yawns from mid-season exhaustion (or boredom but let’s be real, it wasn’t me). And I urged him to finish his book because next year is 2020, the year of perfect vision. He laughed “I hadn’t heard that joke about 2020.” I hadn’t heard it either because I thought of it. And it’s not a joke, it’s true. Next year is the year. I don’t know “of what” but I do know that it is the The Year of Something.
I am going to graduate with my Masters and make decisions. I don’t know what those decisions will be but they will determine the next chunk of my life. And that is why it will be perfect vision. It will be absolute. (Perfect vision isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, anyway? Because they say Hindsight is 20/20). But whatever decisions I make will be impactful and 2020 seems to be a perfect time for all of that to happen.
I hugged F1 and I looked at him and said: “I remember when you kissed me in the boat barn and I had just eaten pizza. I remember wondering: ‘Should I warn him that I just ate Fat Stan’s pizza??’ But I decided not to. And I always wondered if you noticed.” And he said: “Did you? If you did I didn’t notice at all.” And I said: “Well, this might be the last time I ever see you.” And he said: “Don’t say ever. You never know.” And I said: “Okay. See you later.” And I balanced my body between steps all the way to the ramp, up the ramp and across the boardwalk to the backdoor to Allen Marine. It felt like the longest walk of my life because I knew I couldn’t look back.
I know that I will never come back to Ketchikan. This is my reunion and farewell tour at once. The world is waiting for me, or I am waiting for the world, and I will be going out to get it not unlike how I went after Fisherman #1. THE YEAR OF PERFECT VISION COMETH.
So it was only fitting that I resigned myself to simply go to the house of Fisherman #2 without invitation. We were messaging on facebook the day before but he had not responded at all to me that day. I popped by and saw his kid, half a foot taller and with a voice deeper, and media ch’analik (half naked) with just his shirt off. His kid came out to hug me and said: “Natalie Saxman!” It’s funny, I don’t remember anyone actually calling me that while I lived here… I corrected him and he invited me inside. I saw F2’s mom sitting on the couch and they informed me of many developments: Kid lives here year-round now and so does his Mom (F2’s Mom, Kid’s Grandma). AND there is a huge golden doodle in the house whose hair looks like a confused afro. The edges are straight and the tops are wound into frizzy curls. He is jumping all over everything and play-fighting with the Boston Terrier.
By the time F2 gets home (he was at a meeting that went long) The golden doodle begins to hump a pillow and doesn’t stop for 20 minutes. I try to avert my eyes because he can’t even reach the pillow. It was far more awkward than any middle school dance I’ve attended, and that is saying something. In a bit his Kid and Mom went to bed and we proceeded to catch up for about 45 minutes. He told me about the pot dispensary he opened downtown and how well it has done. He informed me of the kitchen he just bought “up north” (which is something the islanders say) where he and his mom have a confectionary for edibles. I listen intently, reminding him that he said he wanted a golden doodle way back when I lived here. He said: “I love it when I do what I say I will” with pride.
The question still lingered in my brain: is he single? Finally the dog stopped humping the pillow and took it easy. I imagine Kid was upstairs listening to us.
He mentioned his partner and explained that they are working through their relationship. He couldn’t remember if he was in a relationship when I was here which amused me to no end because I very distinctly remember crushing on him hard and him crushing on me right back. But that summer I put a stop to whatever feelings my heart were indulging because I knew that I had no business falling for F2. Weed shop? Kid from former relationship? Serial monogamist? Etc. But that didn’t stop be from having confusing dreams about F2 and his kid while I was in Guatemala. They left a mark on me. At the end of the night we hugged and I repeated what I had said to Fisherman #1: “This is probably the last time I’ll see you.” He made a dramatic, childlike yelp, I walked out and opened the gate to the road.
And, if I’m being honest, my visit to Ketchikan was motivated by catch-up and closure with these two men. I wanted to see the island, hike, hug friends (especially Claire and Sarah), visit with old co-workers, hear the chisme and reflect on my experience; sure I wanted to talk about Guatemala but I am also a little tired of talking about being in Peace Corps. The only person who really gets it is me. I knew that my heart wanted to visit with these two faces again. The heart, the engine that makes things wobbly (like the ferry ride over). And now it was done.
As I walked home in the dark I felt the resolve settle in around me like the perfect blanket: soft, thick but not heavy, not too hot or too cold. Just what I wanted and perhaps what I needed (those two things are rarely in tandem). With that I had made my peace with this island. I had seen who I wanted to, caught up with who I hoped I would, and walked away with a better understanding of it all: peace with this island for all that it was to me and now, the time to release it into my sea of memory.
On my last morning Claire and I got coffee at Sweet Mermaids (now owned by Cape Fox, that’s like the Gallo family in Guatemala). We had only 45 minutes to get to the ferry so we forewent the visit to F2’s weed shop on Creek Street. After all I do not fit his target demographic. As I boarded the ferry after hugging Claire warmly and tight, I released a quiet sigh of satisfaction. I felt the gratitude of having come full circle with this island (pun intended. But is that really a pun? Or a coincidence that islands are generally circle-ish?) and I rolled myself and my suitcase onto the ferry for the last time in my life. If I ever make it back here, I hope it’s on a cruise ship with all of the stereotypical tourists, maybe a partner and some kids, maybe not. I’ll be excited to see what life looks like from that elevation the next time I get here. And if I never come back.. well, then I never will.
I said to Claire: “A visit doesn’t have to be long to be meaningful.”
[Cue music from Fish Pirate’s Daughter as I sail off into the distance].
