Three Bodies of Water: Orcas Island
Three Bodies of Water: Orcas Island
By Ellen Graham
Cascade Lake
For reasons I don’t quite understand, in June I need to sit and watch Cascade Lake wake up.
Foxglove and monkey flower and one lone red poppy. Breeze and wind and whispers of wind and barely wind and insect wing wind. Goose poop. Still and hushed and breath holding. Low fog covers the lake. Crows and eagles and towhees and thrush. Sun peeping and warmth and daylight. No humans. The first laps of water. A pause.
Then one blue Ford bumping down the road, radio radio radio. Tires slapping.
An adolescent raven yelling What? What? What? Candy-colored kayaks (lime! cherry! lemon!) A backpack and a bandanna and bare feet. Early morning arrivals to get the best picnic table. One family, one blanket, one cooler, then two then three then four. Thunk of groceries on the picnic tables. Chit chit of chickadees looking for scraps. Tables covered with soot and juice and beer. Dogs, suddenly, two then three then a pack–barking, throwing their furry selves into the water! Smack! The whirr of a Frisbee. More cars, more doors slamming, more radio. Adolescent boys screaming What? What? What? Cigarettes dangling from their cherry mouths. Babies staggering like drunks into the shallows. Bleached towels, banana ice cream and coffee. The promise of summer. June.
The Salish Sea
We are smelly and we are sweaty and we are happy. We have arrived at North Beach Cottages high above the Salish Sea. Our annual visit after three days of camping in Moran Park.
The Eagles Nest cottage is a tiny studio. And yes there are many eagles. An eagle carved into the fireplace, an eagle lamp, an eagle rug and an eagle placemat. A carved wooden eagle outside. Eagle mugs and coasters, eagle salt and pepper shakers, eagle teapots and eagle tea containers. And yet completely charming.
There are rituals. I take out my red hots and my red tissue paper and my red candle. Every year these are placed on the windowsill. I take the first shower. The smell of the campfire mixes with the steam and the verbena bodywash and with the lavender shampoo. Tiles in aqua and green shaped like seashells. And above me the citron-stained glass of an eagle.
Then the most important ritual. I grab my late mother’s binoculars and l go outside to the insanely big wooden deck to look at the Salish Sea. The Salish never disappoints. If I concentrate the water moves in every direction. Always the same and always different. The water is bluish gray with eggshell edges. I stand with my elbows on the deck railing watching. Brine and creosote and rot. The breeze is soft as if someone is breathing on me. Ducks floating and diving and floating. For the hour my husband takes to shower and shave and organize the fridge the water belongs solely to me. I can hear the prop planes from the tiny airport down the road. I’m wearing the same lemon colored dress I wear every year and that I only wear here. Here and nowhere else. It has a deep plunge in the back that lets in more sun. A faint smell of geranium from a neglected pot. Scrub jays are demanding dinner and I fling peanuts on the roof. Sunflowers in an aqua bucket. The wood of the deck warms my bare feet. After a long winter of long pants and long sleeves and long raincoats I have forgotten I have skin.
Later we will have cocktails and dinner on the deck, balancing on the two rickety wicker chairs. And later still we will be here looking at the water. Why look away or go inside? The water is so calm it appears to be glass, as if you could walk all the way to Sucia Island on it. The receding gray of the other islands: Patos and Matia. The chug of a red freighter inching along in the strait. A sunset to break your heart, coral and pink blooming from cerulean.
I grew up in an unpredictable house filled with anger and I live in an increasingly unpredictable world filled with anger. Once a year I need the permanence of the Salish. This is the cup I need to drink from all year long.
Smell the sea again. Smell the wood. The middle of July. Stop time.
My Tiny Pond
In my yard on Orcas Island I have a pond. A broken fountain ensures that it stays murky and full of mosquitoes. Circled by droopy ferns and holly berry and dying grass. And a decrepit chain link fence meant to curb the bird carnage wrought by our two cats. In August it is fascinating.
Because something changes every day. Something new yet expected. I have watched this pond three years in a row. I know what’s coming next but it’s still extraordinary. In the world I inhabit logic and science have become enemies of the people. So I find it reassuring to watch science at work in my pond.
I have to look closely but even through the muck I can see them. Eggs bundled like tapioca. The miracle of cell division in any egg. Simple and complex. Unseen by me. They wiggle out of their protective jelly. Then tail fins. Gills. I sit and I watch. Bloated black tadpoles. Swimming! Barely visible under the umber water.
Tadpoles are a wonder. Is there anything more magical? They gather closely, as a soccer team readying for a scrum. Tails forming. Tails receding. Tiny back legs appear, small as a bud on a tree. They tuck their legs under, delicately, demure ladies closing their fans. What must it feel like? To suddenly sprout legs? And not just sprout them but know, when the first two appear, to tuck them under so you can still swim? I watch and I watch and I watch. Herons will eat some. Snakes will eat some. Some will eat each other.
The survivors seem to transform overnight. Frogs appear. Awkward in their new bodies like a tween at a dance. Then one day I go to my pond, and they are gone. Overnight they have disappeared into the trees. I can hear them rasping but I don’t see them again.
August miracles from a clouded backyard pond.
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