Appleton Cove through Peril Strait and down Chatham Strait to Warm Springs Bay, Baranof Island

July 25, 2008: Goodbye’s are hard to say


Vanessa leaving Zulu with a heavy, but happy heart

The boat is stocked for the return journey to Warm Springs Bay. We’re tired. Vanessa orders pizza from Romas.

“This is going to be a disaster!” Russ says affecting an Italian pizza officionada. Drew and Lucy pick it up at the top of the dock. Large looks small. Lucky I have a salad, crusty bread, brie, and we open our bottle of red wine.

“It’s delicious!” I say and so do the rest. Yum. We’re hungry and the pizza disappears like wild fire.

Time to open the champagne and have the last of Russ’ chocolate birthday cake. Little pieces only. Ness says she’ll go without since she had a piece while we were hiking around Beaver Lake.

The previous night’s diesel heater overflow alert had left Vanessa too tired to join us. Lucy heard the drips and smelled the strong odor in the starboard cabin. Drew alerted Russ and the nocturnal underwear-clad hazard spill clan worked hard to track down and stop the leak. Russ does not remember, but agrees he must have left the pump on.

Vanessa laughed loud and long at the shadowy gents parading in their skivvies, which woke me up to find some of it in the bilge. It was a dirty work morning cleaning out the bilges.

Frank met us at 1:00 pm that afternoon sharp to drive and lead us on the Beaver Lake trail. Past Sitka on the Sawmill Creek road, the Beaver Lake trail begins at the footbridge. You can climb high up well placed rocks and steps about a mile to a beautiful, small lake stocked with Arctic grayling.

We slowly walk around the lake, linger awhile, and drink in reflection, quiet, tranquil moments. Pick sprigs of Sitka spruce and hemlock, ground dogwood and blueberry and tiny pink daisy-like wild flowers to grace Zulu’s main salon. An afternoon’s respite. Walking back down the trail marks our turning point in Alaska.

Frank and Gloria pay a brief goodbye visit to Zulu with cheesecake for a parting gift, which we topped off with Kahlua. All tuck in for a night of sweet sleep.
Friday morning dawns. Vanessa is slow to pack her small bags.
“I don’t want to leave.” She says looking on longingly.

“I will miss you so sweet child.” I say.

She is a wise daughter. Delicate. Observant. Uplifted by nature, with a spirit that overflows with musical laughter and at times silent tears.

Untie the lines from the transient dock. Leave behind the Adirondack and the John A on either side of us, Indiana and all the familiar fishing boats we have encountered along the way. On through the drizzle to the fuel dock. Fill the tanks. I hold Vanessa’s hand and hug her.

She smells the Dream Angel perfume I sprayed on—a gift from her I carry with me—she smiles knowing I like it. And she carefully steps off Zulu, onto the wet dock. I take a photograph. Drew lets go the lines. Russ puts the boat in gear and I stand at the stern waving. Rain and tears wash my face.

She stands on the fuel dock in the rain in her pale blue coat, small linen backpack and canvas hand carry bag on her back, looking on—the fisherman a backdrop—her figure slowly diminishes. Goodbyes are hard to say.


Vanessa standing on the fuel dock in the rain as we pull away