Akutan Memories/King Crab season, 2013

I was gifted a fancy DSLR camera in 2012, and spent a few years taking pictures incessantly, which I did nothing with.  They sit in my google drive collecting (cyber)dust.  For the 3.7 people reading this, here you go.  I’m interspersing the photos with journal entries, quotes from books I read on that trip, and commentary because I have a cold and I can’t watch anymore bad movies today.

The backstory:  I’ve worked for an Alaska seafood company on and off for 17 years.  My work was primarily in Bristol Bay, but here and there I managed to take a job in another part of the state, mostly for the adventure (the $$ during the non-summer seasons for an office clerk is far from mind blowing).  In 2013 I left Bristol Bay after 2.5 months, had a week off in the States which I spent road tripping to Montana, flew up to Petersburg to work for almost a month, went straight to California for an astrology apprenticeship, had a week off at home in Portland, and then flew to the Aleutian Islands for crab season.  That was an excellent year.


What a burden longing was– to stand on the continent’s soft edge, waves always and endlessly arriving, the surf breathing for you, and that old, old dream of paradise stirring deep, as if it were a place you could locate, a place where you could never stay but would instead spend the rest of your life yearning to return to.” Sherry Simpson, The Accidental Explorer

“I made it to Akutan safely, after 8 hours of airplane terror including the most harrowing landing over wild waters and between mountains that the wind was trying to fling the airplane into, 2 hours in the Anchorage airport, 1 beautiful day of exploring with a dear friend in Dutch Harbor, and 4 hours of seasickness on a big boat. Internet sucks but I’ll check in as able. Aleutian Islands: no motherfucking joke.” 10.14.13  

Dutch Harbor, from on high
Dutch Harbor, from on high


WWII fortifications on Ballyhoo Mountain.  Did you know Alaska was invaded by the Japanese?
WWII fortifications on Ballyhoo Mountain. Did you know Alaska was invaded by the Japanese?
from inside a gun fortification lookout (technical term, I’m sure)
perhaps got a little overzealous with the photoshop saturation setting, here.  But it was an astoundingly beautiful place
perhaps got a little overzealous with the photoshop saturation setting, here. But it was an astoundingly beautiful place
3.5 hour flight to Anchorage, 3 hour flight to Dutch, and then a further 4 hour boat trip on the Sea Trader to reach Akutan (seen here at the Akutan dock upon arrival/survival)
3.5 hour flight to Anchorage, 3 hour flight to Dutch, and then a further 5 hour boat trip on the Sea Trader to reach Akutan (seen here at the Akutan dock upon arrival/survival).  I later learned I was lucky to get there so swiftly- planes from Anchorage to Dutch are frequently turned back at the destination due to high winds, and have to just fly the 3 hours back to Anchorage and try the next day.  Boat rides between Akutan and Dutch can take something like 12-15 hours in bad weather.
The first mate of the Sea Trader, who later became a beloved friend, was curt and unfriendly when I came on board.  I asked to be allowed to stay on deck, both out of fear/claustrophobia and curiosity about the islands.  He said if I was on deck, someone would have to stay awake to watch me, and their trips back and forth from Dutch to Akutan were often their only chance to sleep.  I was henceforth locked away in the galley with no portholes, and set to sea on the Bering in early fall weather.  I have rarely been seasick, but I spent the entire 5 hours hunched on this bench with my head between my knees.  Many curious members of the crew came to make conversation with me in this state, and I politely responded to their inquiries with my face in my lap- and managed not to throw up.
The first mate of the Sea Trader, who later became a beloved friend, was curt and unfriendly when I came on board. I asked to be allowed to stay on deck, both out of fear/claustrophobia and curiosity about the islands. He said if I was on deck, someone would have to stay awake to watch me, and their trips back and forth from Dutch to Akutan were often their only chance to sleep. I was henceforth locked away in the galley with no portholes, and set to sea on the Bering in early fall weather. I have rarely been seasick, but I spent the entire 5 hours hunched on this bench with my head between my knees. Many curious members of the crew came to make conversation with me in this state, and I politely responded to their inquiries with my face in my lap- and managed not to throw up.


“Made it to Akutan.  I have my own room, and the window looks out onto the rock face of the mountain and the trail leading up.  The first morning I didn’t need to start work until noon so I walked to the village.  The road out of the plant curves around the harbor- the whole village and the cannery are planted on a narrow strip of land that butts up against the mountain.  Once you get past the harbor there are boardwalks that run through the village, wide enough for a 4-wheeler but no vehicles.  It was very quiet- just the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the wind and the birds.  I ran into the teacher and, being an obvious, rare and therefore interesting stranger, he spoke to me as if we were old friends and invited me into the school to meet the kids, all 13 of them.  I walked past all the houses to where the boardwalk runs through the tall grass towards the mouth of the harbor.  The sun was in my eyes and the light was strange, both very bright and strangely weak.  Just past the end of the boardwalk you could see the waters of the Bering Sea and the pale blue horizon.  The light and the colors and the water and the quiet all reminded me of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader when they reach the western waters and all become drunk with life force, and become quiet and calm and stop needing to eat or talk but just sit and look out on the waters and the light and feel a calm, overwhelming joy.  I feel like that.” 10.15.13



“We never know what is going to happen, do we? Life is always throwing us this way and that. That’s where the adventure is. Not knowing where you’ll end up or how you’ll fare. It’s all a mystery, and when we say any different, we’re just lying to ourselves. Tell me, when have you felt most alive?” The Snow Child 

Russian Orthodox church in Akutan
Russian Orthodox church in Akutan



“Walked to the village again this morning.  Saw a group of seals swimming across the main harbor, sleek heads bobbing up to take the air and then sliding back under, up and under over and over, graceful and coordinated as synchronized swimmers.  Listened to a small bird sing from a rock along the water- he stood facing me, chest puffed out, happy to have an audience.” 10.17.13



I struggled in Akutan.  I was used to Naknek, where I knew everyone and had some earned authority from seniority and hard won knowledge.  In Petersburg the month previous it had still felt like the end of summer.  Akutan is a cold, lonely place.  It’s strange to look at my journal and see how unhappy I was because my memories of Akutan are the wonder of meeting a place under the enchantment of still belonging largely to itself.  But I was anxious, felt like an outcast, felt caged in by the office which was in the same building as the crab processing area and so smelled like dead crab and machinery.  I felt useless at work, and slow. I felt caged in by the oncoming dark also, which came over us more and more every day as winter approached.  A friend of mine wrote a novel that included scenes set in Akutan, where she has never been, but in describing the winter darkness as “shamanic” she got it right.  I will probably never go back there, but it imprinted itself on me in those five weeks, forever.




“I went out to the dock at break today- needed to see the wild Alaska that I love and not these claustrophobic walls.  It has been stormy and the weather was wild, slapping up against the dock in wave after wave- a soft, milky blue green, the mountain across shrouded in fog and topped with snow, the seagulls riding the swells and fighting for tidbits in the water.  The Ocean Explorer pulling away, ponderous and slow, moving back out to the fishing grounds.” 10.25.13


“At the end of my shift we did a pollock fish ticket with about 15 other species on the ticket- squid, salmon, sablefish.  It was dark out by then and through the office window I could see the black waters of the bay, looking thick as oil, waves shining in the lights from the boats at the dock.  A crowd of seagulls waited on the roof outside the window, patient as old men with hands in their pockets for refuse from the boat as it unloaded.  I had this vision of all those kinds of fish out there in the water, and the gulls, the water, the mountains and the stars, and the boats moving slowly through, invaders in a wild land much bigger and wilder than we could ever tame with our little metal capsules and flimsy nets, and how that wildness seeps into all of us here.  No- how that wildness makes an answering note sing deep within us, a chord that is always there.” 10.16.13

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“Even with the trauma, the crabstink, crying in the bathroom, the food, the darkness, the bedbug (just one thank the gods) it has been so worth it.  The beauty and the wildness of this place, the hills to climb and roam, the mountain greeting me every morning, the gulls and eagles and falcons, the small sparrows and starling, the terns with their oil black feathers and graceful long necks.  Sea otters rolling and playing in the water, the sea lions breaching and blowing- yesterday on the dock, 10 a.m., barely sunrise, we stood looking out to find a sea lion Masa had pointed out and then one breached just below us, she looked up and then dove under and with the angle and the closeness and the clearness of the water we could see her clearly, stretched out fins front and back, her ungainly body sleek and graceful in the water, diving down down down down at an angle until she disappeared into the darkness, I will never ever forget it.” 11.15.13


“It started snowing a week ago and the mountains and the dock were all covered in an inch of snow.  I went out every chance I got, all bundled up.  It was majestic, and wicked and deadly and sharp.  Slate blue water, deepening to midnight and lightening to a milky jade green where the waves slapped the dock.  Water running off the mountain across the bay had become icicles, flowing frozen into the harbor water.  Seagulls minced dainty through the snow, leaving three pronged tracks, and huddled on the edge of the dock, heads sunk into their feathers.  There was a pair of sea lions that must live in the bay- I never saw them out of the water, but they were there in the water every time I went out, heads bobbing through the waves, glaring at me with belligerent, bulbous eyes.  Always eagles, falcons circling high over ahead and ravens calling from atop Maersk containers and light poles.  One stressful day, I took an hour and a half for lunch and walked the dock, 40 mph gusts blowing the fur hood of my parka off my head, blowing white clouds of spray off the top of the water and making the surface ripple and dance, here, there, changing direction with the fickle wind, everything alive.  I walked out past the cannery gates and a little way up the trail near the creek.  The gusts of wind almost knocking me over.  I stopped maybe 30 feet up and looked out across the water.  The wind died down and then I noticed the water surface being pushed up from the mouth of the bay- like a tiny wave, a wake, or like something rising from the deeps, some god or angel, white caps at the forefront.  I knew a big gust of wind was coming, I braced for it, watching the water shimmy closer and closer until it slapped against the rocks at the base of the road, then five seconds later SLAP- it hit me full force, I staggered, shrieked, laughed out loud and waited for more.” 11.25.13file_000-2


“On their way out the door to head South for the season, the men from the Sea Trader (our only reliable form of transportation) cackled loudly as they called, “Good luck getting off the island!” A little bit unsettling. Thanks guys.” 11.13.13

Once the Sea Trader left, after the crab quota was filled and most of the processors were gone, the only way off the island was to take the hovercraft to the neighboring island of Akun.  Akutan is too rocky for a runway.  Akun is a small, flat island with a single air traffic controller working in a tiny building, a long runway, and a shipping container filled with chairs that served as a waiting room.  For ten days after the Sea Trader left us, the hovercraft was broken and we were all stranded.  I was arranging travel as part of my job and everyone was losing their minds, and I was losing mine.  We finally got it operational and I got myself on the hovercraft to Akun, and then an 8 seat airplane slowly ferried 40 of us the 20 minutes to Dutch.  In the shipping container waiting room was an inoperational coffee pot and 5 of the Chronicles of Narnia.

In Dutch Harbor I stayed at the Grand Hotel for a week.  I had fallen in love in Akutan, not just with the place and with the sea lions but with a human man.  I won’t talk about him much here.  That time with him was a sacred time, and a liminal one, a time between two worlds and between someone I had been and someone I was becoming.  I will treasure it always, though it was difficult to give it up, later, in the real world.

Dutch Harbor in December was breathtaking.  We had an entire week to wander around in the snow.  I come from a place where it snows enough to stick maybe once a year, and I felt like a child set loose in a wonderland.

Russian Orthodox church in Unalaska
Summer Bay

“We drove out to Summer Bay along ice glittered snow covered single lane road and then up into the hills past WWII gun ports and bunkers, tundra grass and berries submerged under a blanket of white, and out to Morris Cove, where we found the islands herd of wild horses.  I was entranced- I’ve barely ever seen a horse, much less a wild one.  Two of them walked towards me, curious and gentle.  I stroked their necks, one brown and one white, both with soft fuzzy fur coats, not the coarse hair I was expecting.  Long manes dreaded and unruly.  Big brown eyes looking at me with curiosity and no malice.  They soon tired of us and began eating the tundra grass growing next to the road.  Morris Cove somehow shelters them from the snow, sun drenched and golden.  On the way back we saw a fox, bright red against the white snow, skittish and quick.  He ran off before I could get a picture but I found his tracks down the road a bit, running down the hillside and onto a frozen pond.  Fox tracks everywhere, blue ice, the Bering Sea below in Summer Bay rolling towards the beach in slow swells, huge and undulating, splashing against the rocks at the feet of the seagulls, picking the shoreline for food.  Too cold outside to not wear gloves, our xtratufs crunching through the frozen top layer of snow.  Everything quiet and no evidence of the human world except us and the long abandoned WWII bunkers, everything magical and strange.” 11.27.13

C and the frozen lake
wild horses on unalaska island



tide, feather, snow

“To die falling off a ladder or being run over by a drunk means nothing.  But, for the man who lives and dies at risk, who puts his hands in the fates of the gods, death is never meaningless.” The Holy, Daniel Quinn

“After 7 hours of flight terror – after rocking and rolling our way out of Dutch Harbor, after flying for over an hour through solid, ominous grey cloud cover between Dutch and Anchorage, after leaving Anchorage and spending two hours in a plane shaking so hard my teeth were rattling and the attendant was falling in people’s laps serving drinks, after the ‘little bit’ of turbulence we were warned about during landing had everyone in the plane screaming and bracing themselves on the ceiling, after everything in the galley jumped off the shelves and rolled down the aisles, after the coffee pots smashed to the floor and coffee started seeping underneath my seat, after we all applauded when we landed in Seattle and the flight attendant thanked the pilot for landing us safely, after the flight attendant patted me on the shoulder and said, “I’ve been flying 6 years and never experienced a flight that bad”- after all that and 7, SEVEN! mini bottles of vodka, I am safely if not soundly on the ground in the Lower 48. And I’m never flying again.” 12.2.13




Owls and Animals/Alaska photos

I’m currently reading The Hidden Lives of Owls by Leigh Calvez.  It’s a good read.  I recommend.  I was reminded of a trip my mother and I took in 2014 to The Alaska Raptor Center in Sitka, AK.  I took a ton of photos and never did anything with them, so here they are.  Also some from the Fortress of the Bear in Sitka,  Sitka Sound Science Center, and the Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center south of Anchorage.

I’m guessing which owl is which from the website.  I didn’t keep track at the time but only looked at them each as individual personalities.


Peek-A-Boo, Western Screech Owl.  I remember her being very shy and see now that she was severely injured by a car and is blind in one eye.



Boris, Great Gray Owl.  Bad-Ass.  Also came to the center due to a collision.



Glaucus, Barred Owl.  Sidenote: Barred Owls are an ‘invasive species’ in the PNW.  They are largely responsible (along with massive deforestation) for the decline of the Northern Spotted Owl due to superior survival skills (less picky about food and nesting sites).  A pilot study is currently underway in which Barred Owls are removed (killed) from Northern Spotted Owl territory near Mt. Rainier.  Leigh Calvez, the author of the Hidden Lives of Owls, quoted Aldo Leopold on this topic:

“The cowman who cleans his range of wolves does not realize that he is taking over the wolf’s job of trimming the herd to fit the range.  He has not learned to think like a mountain.  Hence we have dustbowls, and rivers washing the future into the sea.”



Pele, Peregrine Falcon.  Another car collision, found in a parking lot in Friday Harbor.


I can’t place this one, but they sure are pretty.



Tootsie!  A Northern Saw-Whet Owl.  She was smaller than my hand.


and very hungry.




073-2 081-3 082-3***


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Musk Ox

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Find What You Love and Let It Kill You

The season is over and I’m home now… or what passes for home when what you have left of physical possessions is in boxes under a carport at your parents’ place, next to the half-finished shell of what will eventually be your tiny house.  I’m overwhelmed with an exhaustion borne of 71 days of work in a row, 940 work hours, 50 million salmon, 30,000+ fish tickets and invoices, two plane rides, and caffeine withdrawal.  And a sadness that isn’t so much loneliness as it is the sensation of having 7 limbs cut off at once and wondering how you are supposed to get by without them?  Those 7 limbs being my coworkers/salmon family.  

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I feel like we lived through 2 entire separate seasons this summer.  The first was relaxed and full of fun and easy-going work (even if that work was 80-112 hours a week) alongside a growing anxiety as the salmon didn’t come… and didn’t come… and didn’t come… until it was after 4th of July (the traditional peak of the season) and we started to prepare ourselves for a bust season.  The second season started on July 11th, when I came to work after having been gone 8 hours to find that the fish had come in force, all at once, we were on limits, and everything was about to hit the fan.  That second season involved a record-setting amount of fish tickets and invoices for us to process, the announcement of a price that was far lower than the fishermen had hoped for and some other company specific things that were devastating to the fleet, a lot of huffing and door slamming and yelling and tears, and the salmon a never-ending flood up the rivers until we were all begging for it to stop.  And it didn’t.  We were still getting huge deliveries a week after the season would normally have begun to wind down.  We worked more consecutive 16-hour days this summer than I ever have before.  There were a few days where I felt that I couldn’t take one more second of it.  But I could.  And I did.

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But don’t let any of that make you think I didn’t have one of the best summers of my life.  These yearly seasons of sleep deprivation and 24/7 companionship are my biggest teacher and I always come out of it changed.  I flew home from Anchorage on August 14th, terrified out of my mind as I always am on long flights, and to soothe myself I stared out the window at the mountains and waterways of Alaska, turquoise green and midnight blue and icy white mountaintops, and I thought about relationships, and love, and how if I took away anything from this summer it’s that nothing is guaranteed to us in life, not safety or comfort or joy but neither is sadness or heartbreak.  It all Is What It Is and all you can do is take each day as it comes, on it’s own terms, and live with it, and people too.  They are here one moment and might be gone the next, whether by choice or circumstance, and the best you can do is take what is offered as it is and let it fill you up rather than holding off for something you think you want more.  The love thrown my way this summer was enough to keep me going through the whole shitshow and probably the rest of the year, and I might have come home a broke-ass, 33 year old homeless unemployed high school drop-out divorcee but in life I count myself one seriously lucky woman.  

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Until next year, Alaska!

Bristol Bay pre-season, in pictures

It has been a slow start again to the season.  2013 the fish came early and in abundance and the last two seasons we’ve geared up early, just in case… all for naught.  It’s nice for us in the office.  We get a slower start and more time to acclimate and get things ready.  The forecast this year is gigantic; 50 million fish.  The forecast last year was only 28 million and we got 40 million.  It has felt downright lazy-dazy these first two weeks and with that forecast, it makes me nervous.  I think we are going to get absolutely slammed with salmon in a few weeks.  Slow start means we will have the energy for it, I guess.  I hope…

I’ve been here two weeks and there was a good solid week of parties, reunions and shenanigans at the beginning but most of the friends left to go fishing a few days ago and I’ve been sleeping 9 or 10 hours a night.  After a first week of rain and cold the sun came out last weekend with a vengeance.  90 degrees yesterday.  Wut?  This is Alaska!  The place where Pacific Northwesterners and Scandinavians come to hide from the summer.  There’s a reason there are so many redhead fishermen in Alaska in June and July… bring back sweatshirt weather, please.

Here are some photos.  I’m not feeling very poetic tonight.

a walk on the tundra
baby fireweed blooming
I wish that through this picture I could convey the pine/sage smell of crushed tundra grass and the sense of being held in the most comfortable mattress ever


floodtide tender
waiting for the tide
90 degrees makes fisherfellas sleepy


‘fuck you I have enough friends’


seal baby found stranded on the beach
seal baby found stranded on the beach
a visitation and knife sharpening lesson from Lee
a visitation and knife sharpening lesson from Lee


saturday night on the town
happy birthday Haley!!!

Back in Bristol Bay

It’s mid-afternoon Mug-Up* on the 6th day of my tenth salmon season in Bristol Bay, Alaska. This morning we had partial blue skies and the cold sunny light of early June, but now the grey shrouded sky blends into the floodtide waters of the Naknek River and rain streams down the windows of the office. The weather here changes with an abruptness that mirrors the spirit of the place and the work we are here to do. There is no softness in Bristol Bay. It is all knife edge beauty and stark truth.


It is Sunday, early in the season before the fish have come, and this is my favorite time. The phones are quiet and we are all at our desks engrossed in the work of preparing for the season. The gloom outside and the rain on the windows creates a bubble of companionable busyness. Today is the first day that I feel *here* again. My whole self, present and engaged with this place, this work, not still half on the Outside. This is what I come here for. A total narrowing of focus. A concentration and surrender impossible in the land of TV, advertisements, cell phone apps, text messages, billboards and freeways. I am so grateful for my strange life in this place.


It has already been an interesting few days on a personal level. Lots of dearly loved people here whom I rarely see outside of Bristol Bay. There is an intimacy rooted in daily contact and the intensity of work that is different from relationships forged elsewhere. There is history going back years, and the attendant complications of history. The first few days were a little difficult to negotiate. In the middle of it, I found a note jotted on the back of a piece of scrap paper in my desk, written at some point last season. “Riding the swells and eddies of emotion. It’s ok to do that here. Bristol Bay can take it.”

She always does.




*”The term “Mug Up” was used in coastal communities by the mid-1800s to describe any snack or coffee break throughout the day or evening. “Mug ups” were an important part of life for fishermen. They would gather and have a hearty meal and warm up whenever they could take a break. Today, this nautical expression still describes a gathering of people for a drink and meal” Thanks, Urban Dictionary!


Even Glaciers Get Boring

It is dusk in Stephen’s Passage, and I am on wheelwatch as the boat travels north from Petersburg, back to the fishing grounds near Juneau.  We are into fall weather now… the sky is a leaden grey and the sea is choppy, breaking into white topped curls, the wind blowing the spray off the waves into droplets so fine it looks like smoke.  As we pass slowly by Holkham Bay at 8 knots, I check the GPS to make sure we are on course, the radar for any other vessels getting close to us, and scan the sea ahead for logs and icebergs.  A break in the clouds to starboard shows me for a moment the mountains of Tracy Arm-Ford’s Terror Wilderness, where a glacier rests in the crack between two peaks, a frozen river of bright blue ice flowing almost into the sea.  It is a majestic sight.  I think to myself, “Meh.  You again.”  and go back to playing Solitaire on my phone.

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We’ve traveled past this glacier 2-4 times a week for the past month.  As the season draws to a close and fishing slows, the company fleet of tender vessels has slowly been whittled down to just a few of us.  Contracts have ended and boats have left Southeast to go on to their next job, be it tendering in Puget Sound for fall fishing or heading out to the Bering Sea or Kodiak for crab season.  With less boats in the rotation, the Carole B has ended up with the northern section every week.  After leaving Petersburg sometime Friday, we anchor up outside Juneau to give out ice on Saturday and Sunday mornings, and then make daily rounds of the fishing areas off Stephen’s Passage; Taku Inlet, Port Snettisham.  We anchor at night in a harbor, mostly Slocum Inlet, and end up there or near Juneau again for the closure of fishing at the end of the week.  Then 12 hours south back to Petersburg, where we offload fish, get more ice, groceries, fuel and fresh water.  After a few hours off in town (if we’re lucky) off we go again.

So this glacier, and the waters of the Inside Passage between Petersburg and Juneau, the whales and seagulls and porpoises swimming in our wake, the ever shifting clouds, the wild sunsets, the leaping salmon… they’ve all become just a little less exciting to me.  But the thing is, ‘exciting’ is a consequence of something having value for it’s novelty.  And sure, all of this was very novel, exotic to me at one time.  But I don’t want to value things purely for some kind of story that I can later tell about it or picture I can show (although, obviously, I enjoy both stories and pictures).  My ability to be somewhat bored by this glacier or the porpoises or the sunsets is rooted very much in the intimacy of knowing something so well that it becomes a part of you.  I don’t get a rush from seeing a beautiful glacier because something at my very core has changed.

I haven’t lost my wonder.  I’ve become wonder.

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The Rainbow

Anchored in Slocum Inlet.  Nasty weather today- rain, heavy wind.  We are spinning in fairly rapid circles around the anchor.  The gillnetters in their tiny boats are being thrown all about in the chop – makes me nervous for fall fishing in Puget Sound.  Peaceful day – we left Gastineau at 3:30 a.m. and went up to Auk Bay to ice up the four Lynn Canal boats.  Icing was harder today – had to do way more shoveling, with hardened ice and one boat after another.  My arms were screaming.  Made bacon, eggs and grits for everyone and then we came down to Slocum.  I slept.  Now the boat is silent.  I’m watching the waves and fog out the window and looking through the chart maps.  Earlier I was sitting at the galley table reading, Joe and Gwynne next to me and I looked up to find the brightest rainbow I’ve ever seen coming straight out of the water between our bow and the shoreline.  I went outside and the wind was so strong I could barely stand upright; it was flinging drops of seawater and rain at my face.  It was so beautiful and wild, and I thought again about risk, and how the most beautiful, precious and sacred things are often only shown to you if you take on the risk and danger of finding them.  If you make that sacrifice to the gods.  I would never have seen the rainbow if I hadn’t gone to work on this boat, unexperienced, with strangers.  The rainbow was full, stretching across our bow into the water on either side, and at one end bobbed a small blue buoy… the crab pot at the end of the rainbow.  I doubt it could have been seen by anyone not in the harbor and I stood on the bow and laughed aloud at the secret, delicious magic of it all, the rainbow and the uninhabited green mountain behind it, the wild wind and rain, and the company awaiting me inside the cabin.  All afternoon the wind has been groaning through the rigging as we turn and turn through the waves.  We had halibut fried in Bisquick for dinner and then sat talking for hours.  Now another night of sleeping soundly on the rocking of the water.038 (5)