Crossing Prince William Sound

We welcome back Corky Parker to Rainshadow Journal after her summer work in Alaska!

As Bill, my Captain, and I round the corner, north out of Cordova, he shows me the course he’s set across the Sound, a five-hour straight line during which we get to just sit here — and enjoy the ride, and view. Whew.

A few clouds swirled around the mountains of town when we first woke up, but we left them behind us now —in Cordova, just like we did the six high school seniors, their science teacher, and our naturalist. They all flew away yesterday. We shared the bittersweet feeling of saying goodbye to the kids we’d spent the last 12 days with on Endeavour. In the course of their research, explorations, adventures, meals, and ongoing discussions about the value of wilderness, the challenges of social media, and what they think they’d like to study in college it’s impossible not to become quite fond of them. Those six New England prep schoolers will always be my maiden voyage kids; my first Endeavour expedition. They are the ones who taught me that PBJs and plain white rice beat out homemade venison chili or cheesy spinach polenta. Keep it simple cheechako.

Bill and I celebrate how successfully the trip went over sushi and margaritas outside, watching the slow descent of Alaska’s summer sun. It feels wonderful to hear great feedback, as well as eat something I didn’t have to plan, shop, prep, cook and clean up after. Tequila also feels good. I’d been curious about what not drinking for two weeks would be like. Turns out, I was kept too busy to notice the absence. It was an extraordinary, wild, first ride.

The sea is wonderfully, almost a tropical turquoise today. The skies are crystal clear. Way off on the western horizon, there are tiny dark blue “bits”. They could almost be battleships. But no. They are small islands, fifty miles away. Something to the north is either distant low clouds, or no. It’s a snowy peak I see when I put on my sunglasses. The enormity of it all— from this physical world outside, to the personal growth way inside — is hard to capture, but it’s a such a gift to have quiet and stunning morning I’m going to try.The immensity of the landscape; water and land. It feels like I am quite small, downright insignificant in this seemingly endless world of truly wild water, islands, and mountains. We sometimes don’t see other boats, buildings, or any signs of civilization for days. The magnitude, the beauty and the magic are always on hand — to blow my mind, and soothe my soul —the steady payoff. Case in point, we just passed a raft of at least 60 otters, all playing and swimming together

The constant learning. Learning what scary midnight noises are worth waking the captain for, and which do you roll over and try to sleep for? How to learn enough about the boat’s electrical system that I turn on the generator from understanding rather than trying to memorize the steps. Learning how to respond to a teenager’s secret confidences, or how to keep them on task, and still motivated. While the students are onshore learning to do scientific surveys, I’m learning rapid workarounds on the meal plan — conjuring ways to overcome whatever setback has arisen — a misread recipe, a faulty crock pot or rice cooker that was never turned on. There’s a boatload of learning involved in meal planning, provisioning, stowing, preparing, cooking, and cleaning. Add on leading a rotating galley crew of two high schoolers to assist me every two days. We are all learning and laughing — a lot.

So much is like running the Finca, that it feels — not just like being back in the saddle, but it’s a sweet, familiar, worn-in saddle. My saddle. I got this. I had this. Sure it’s been eight years, but apparently I still know how to handle this. Not my first finca, rodeo, or teenagers.

The change of pace & rôle. In a few days, 1’ve gone from being an accidental, sometimes restless small-town retiree, to an on-the-go, round-the-clock boat cook, really, all-around boat mom. When I lamented that I was more mom than something impressive— like first mate, the student whose minor scrape I was ministering to, looked up from his field data, and told me I should be proud — “cause moms are awesome”. 🙂 It’s true. I haven’t felt this needed, or tired, (downright spent after the occasional 12-hour days) since I was doing all this for Finca guests, or my kids. It’s downright fulfilling. If it’s true that being of use is one of the few keys to happiness, no wonder I’m smiling.

With everybody gone, today’s pace and my role has changed dramatically again, if only for the next two weeks — that we have gloriously off. It’s slow and open til the next group comes in — college kids this time; from all over the country. Luckily, like childbirth, any pain of the long days is already subsiding…and I’m just sitting here alone in the pilot house, awash and warm in the sunshine, surrounded by bright blue water. We’re in pretty much the center of the Sound now. Still alone. Those distant bits that were revealed to be islands have steadily come forward, revealing themselves now to be an entire mountain range. Now I realize it’s the length of the Kenai Peninsula I’m looking at. Where we’re headed.

Dawns on me — the last, the only time I’ve crossed these waters, just south in the Gulf of Alaska, was January 1st, 1985. David, my first husband/father of my children, and I left this upcoming mountain range in Seward, and boarded the MV Tustemena on the one winter trip south the ferry service offered — “the dry dock run”. We were moving to Seattle with our six-month-old, Tyler, and Mikki, our husky. The seas were wretched —with forty-foot waves in one direction and 20-foot swells, in the other. Ty grew up to be a captain, a pilot on the largest boats that sail these waters. I grew up to… what? I’m not sure yet. But it involves coming back up here. There’s something about the mingling of old and new, the known, and the yet-to-learn, that keeps me going and makes these upcoming mountains getting bigger and clearer all the time.

All photos by the author