Monday, June 23, 2008: Matilpi, Indian Islands, Havanah Channel off Johnstone Strait
White shell midden beach view from my porthole
I’m sipping hot green tea in my little aft nest: dark green fleece bottom sheet, top cream sheet with green tiny leaves, an ultra warm and light goose down quilt with a cover of white background and beautiful blue flower designs. I’m rested. It is 10-to-9 in the morning. How decadent. A switch from three 4:00 AM risings.
The stern cabin porthole is my movie camera to this idyllic anchorage. As the boat gently swings, I have a 180-degree moving vista: deep green still, but gently moving waters of sheen with perfect reverse reflection of low Evergreen tree lines to rocks to water. One other lone sailboat at anchor is framed perfectly. Then the shell midden white beach, so ghostly in the moonlight last night, comes to view. How I wish I knew the stories of the Indians who lived here, perhaps for the summers, and who created this beach with oyster or clam shells. Indian Island, Matilpi beach anchorage where all the stories behind the living beauty of pristine coves remain silent—respite from inhibiting forces of waters beyond. Humankind is determined to discover and live on.
Last night was discouraging. I could not get Paul at Misery Point, Seabeck, Washington on the radio. I eventually heard two chaps in Riverside, California mouthing their big American mouths off on how great their rigs were. Spare me their painful dialogue. I could also not send a position or e-mail. How pathetic is that. Cold and frustrated at 9:00 PM I crawled under the feathers, tired from the most exhilarating day with Russ already asleep by my side. I await a new day dawned, most exquisite! Most beautiful. Most perfect. Quietly the birds sing. I linger a few more minutes—sipping tea with my slow moving panoramic porthole view. My private view of the world. This is perfection in creation. I think we’ll stay a day.
"Marilyn! A Bear!! I’m not kidding. Get up here!" Russ yelled down the hatch.
I had somehow doubted I would see a bear. But there it was. A medium-sized one with the shiniest of coats. It must have walked across the white shell midden beach without us noticing. He was now on the rocky shore foraging, eating lychen off low branches. He lunched all afternoon.
The yachtie, Peter, off of Casablanca from San Francisco said on their previous visit he saw a bear swim across to the other island. There is nowhere to run when you meet up with one on shore. I’ve seen the second black bear in Canada, or in the world, in the last 15 years. What a special privilege.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment