Learning to Throw a Cast Net

I never learned how to throw a cast net. I know it is something he long wanted to learn and I am happy he had the chance. He would be on the dock all day and all night if he could. It makes my heart happy that he gets this opportunity. 

The Olympic Peninsula by Camper Van, Part Four - Cold American Waters with Dear Friends

We arrived in Mora where we would spend the next two nights. We spent the week with Elise's brother and his family, and after a night apart, we joined forces again at Mora.

Sam slept in the hammock one of the two nights we were at Mora.

We spent the day at Rialto Beach on the north shore of the Quillayute River delta, across the river from the La Push Indian Reservation, made famous in Stephenie Meyer's "Twilight" teen vampire saga as the home of Jacob Black and a tribe of werewolves. 

Wedged in the shallows of the sea green water were Tolkienesque haystacks jutting from the sea, a landscape plucked straight from fantasy. Pelicans and seagulls wheeled lazily in the air around them. We took off our shoes to investigate a pair of the haystacks, James Island and Little James Island, more closely. Along one stretch of beach, the rocks and sea joined, and the only safe passage was to roll up pants legs and skip through the surf. Elise's calf had been tight since disembarking from the 14-hour flight from Doha, and one quick, one-legged leap over a breaking wave caused the muscle to seize up. We had to continue on without her. 

The boys would turn around, growing quickly disenchanted or bored by the calm water protected by the two small islands. Clementine and I soldiered on to explore two tidepools on the leeward side of the largest haystack, crossing a treacherous rock field barefoot. We found sea urchins and starfish wallowing in the shallows. 

We gradually made our way back to the rest of the family. I only waited a few seconds before asking, "So...who's up for a swim?" 

Ever since Sam frolicked in the icy surf at Westport last summer, I had carried regret at not joining him. I wasn't going to go another year hauling that heavy burden. If, by the fourth day, the passage of time had not been enough to shake the shackles of jet lag, diving headfirst into the green Pacific Ocean would surely clarify the mind, realign the time-space continuum, and set things aright. 

The Driving Test

An unfortunate side effect of living overseas is having your driver's license expire with no way to renew it.

The day before we traveled to Sri Lanka for the first time, I spent four to five hours standing in line outside the Virginia DMV in Arlington. By the time, I got to the counter, I was given a chit and told I'd have to wait an additional four to five hours until it was my turn to renew my license. I muttered, "Eff this." And went home. A few months later my driver's license expired with no way to renew it online. I haven't had a valid driver's license since. This is less of an issue in Sri Lanka. But in the States, I don't drive at all. Last summer, Elise had to chauffeur my sorry ass around Washington State, including through the entirety of our camper van trip through the Northern Cascades. 

This summer, I committed to reinstating my driver's license, but the only way to do this was to retake both the written and driving portions of the test in Washington like a doe-eyed neophyte. 

I had to pass the written test before I could sign up for the driving test. I walked into the exam room completely cold turkey, hoping 30+ years of operating a motor vehicle would embibe me with some preternatural driving wisdom, as though through sheer osmosis I could absorb the rules of the road.  

I was clearly the oldest person in the examination by years ... if not decades. Though I was reduced to a blubbering blob of nerves when I was forced to request a #2 pencil from the overbearing proctor, a heavy set (if not overweight) man in a Hawaiian shirt sporting a Seahawks trucker hat. He read the instructions to the test from the back of the booklet. Just as he concluded, an acne-flecked teenager burst into the room, apologizing for his tardiness. 

The man at the head of the room shot him a withering, dessicating glare. "I just finished reading the instructions," he told the boy. 

"I was really busy," The kid stammered back, as though there could be dozens of reasons more important than getting to your driving test on time. 

"I don't like reading the instructions twice," The proctor replied icily. 

When another young girl, all limbs and torso in a tie-dyed tube top like a high school volleyball player told him she forgot her picture ID, she received the same condescension. She had to dismiss herself from the exam entirely when a photo of her passport on her phone failed to qualify as suitable proof of identity. He loped from the room like a wounded gazelle.

To some extent, it was mildly interesting viewing this seminal life moment through a different -- hopefully, wiser -- lens. Though it was hard not to feel sympathy for the humiliated teenagers made to feel like complete crap by the instructor who seemed to make it his sole intent to make them feel as small and stupid as possible, as though that were as important as testing their knowledge of driving laws. 

When I finally received the test, I felt a pang of initial panic. The questions were not easy, and it became immediately clear maybe I should have spent at least a few minutes thumbing through the study guide. Questions like: "How long should you wait before notifying the DMV of a change of address? A) 5 days, B) 2 weeks, C) 14 days, D) 1 month." And: "Marijuana use A) Increases the time needed to analyze a situation and formulate a reaction, B) Decreases the time needed to analyze a situation and formulate a reaction, C) Increases the time needed to analyze a situation and decreases the time needed to formulate a reaction, D) Decreases the time needed to analyze a situation and increases the time needed to formulate a reaction." Would require WAGs (wild ass guesses). 

I passed. But hardly aced the test. 

I had to wait a week and a half before the driving test. I returned to the same location and, much to my chagrin, received Hawaiian shirt and Seahawks trucker hat as my tester. 

When I entered the classroom and told him I was a little early for a 3:30 driving test (15 minutes) he preemptively told me to go back outside and wait in the car. Umm .... oookaaay. 

When he emerged from the classroom at exactly 3:30, I introduced myself and explained my situation. Unlike during the written test, he immediately warmed up to me, regaling me with stories of his youth in Hawaii when his father was the pilot for the governor. He chatted throughout the entire test which, honestly, made it difficult to concentrate. Come to find out, everyone has a story to tell and everyone just wants to talk. 

I passed the driving test, too. Again, not with flying colors.

The Olympic Peninsula by Camper Van, Part Six - Epilogue

The first camper van trip was about proving that it could be done.  Each subsequent trip is meant to show we can still do it, refusing to rest on our laurels.  It gets easier in some respects and harder in others.  Incrementally, the body becomes a little less cooperative, that climb into the pop-top a little higher.  While the logistics -- what to bring, what not to bring, what to eat and drink, where and how to sleep and bathe (even out of the basket we wash dishes in) -- become more familiar. 

On the drive back to Seattle on the last day in the van, Elise asked, "How long have we been here? It feels like we've been here years and not at all."  It couldn't have been more true.  This trip more than any other.  As I attempt to reconcile the magic of the Olympic Peninsula with how ethereal and flimsy the memories of it are.  We'd been held in a state of suspended animation for most of the three weeks since we left Sri Lanka, but especially so in the van where we are, for a moment, disconnected from the outside world, removed from our home and a little outside of time.  

When we emerged from the woods and regained cell service, we learned riots had, once again, overtaken Colombo.  On July 9, the protestors overran the Presidential Secretariat, chasing the president from his home, swimming in his private pool and taking selfies in his bed.  Then, they burned the Prime Minister's private residence to the ground.  Gotabaya fled the country.  No one knew where he was for days until turning up first in the Maldives, then Singapore.  The likelihood of my office requesting evacuation status grew acute, increasing the possibility Elise and the kids wouldn't be able to return to Colombo, I'd have to go back without them while they stayed in the States.  We remained in limbo for weeks, following current events more closely than we usually would while away, Elise and I concoting back-up plans. 

The week in the camper van has symbolized reclaiming some of our ourselves, shifting the balance of power from expectant relatives.  In the midst of the necessity of visiting family, it is usually the only time it is just us -- Elise and I and the kids -- reconnecting.  Elise and I already treasured that time, but we appreciated it even more this summer, having lost some of that week to the blur of jet lag. 

As we sadly leave the PNW for Florida, our first visit there in three years, conditions in Sri Lanka have stabilized for the time being, and I am hopeful we will all be able to get home to Colombo.  Myself, Elise, and the kids, all of us, are already plotting with next summer in mind, feeling a little robbed as it were by this summer, machinations of a through-hike in the Olympics, daydreams of standing on a ferry bound for Alaska, the icy wind cutting against our bare faces as falcons, eagles, and other birds of prey play on the airwaves flowing off the water, or fantasies of a week at a creekside lodge with the only goal to catch and fry fish. 

The Olympic Peninsula by Camper Van, Part Five - On the Sun Road

The penultimate night was spent at Sol Duc where we swam in the hot springs in the evening and hiked to the waterfalls in the morning. 

Sam and I made a short exploratory hike to see how far the waterfalls were before heading with the rest of the family to the hot springs. 

The next morning we hiked up to Sol Duc falls before heading to our last campsite of the trip.

We saved the best for last .... a seafood cookoff at the last campsite somewhere near Port Townsend, within spitting distance of our return to civilization. 

I'd never made linguine and clams before, but I think my camp stove variation was a winner.

The Language of Crows

When Elise was working in preparation for her art exhibition, a crow sat in the garden at the window keeping her company as she painted. They watched each other, the crow blinking its large black eyes at her, rolling its head left and right in quick flicks of its neck, taking her in with its right eye then left. 

The crow kept her company every morning, sitting in the sun at the window, sometimes talking to her in its own language.  

A few days ago, a small black raptor, a bird of prey with long talons and beady, discerning red pupils, flew into the back garden and right into a window. Stunned, it flapped its wings as it rolled on the ground, attempting to right itself. A murder of crows followed it, perching on the high wall surrounding the garden like sentries, cawing down to the intruder. 

When the raptor finally regained its senses, it made its way in a short, but meandering hops to the branch of a blossoming papaya tree. There, its wings shivered and its torso convulsed, once, twice, then three times before regurgitating a small, round red object that looked like a body part. The gruesome ordeal repeated itself; we watched this small hawk puke up its breakfast, cough up what looked like a tiny heart, before making a break for it, breaking the crow blockade as though it were a Rebel transport escaping Hoth's lower atmosphere.  

The crows followed in pursuit.  

There are crows everywhere, and it's nearly impossible to escape the sound of their conversations. They're at the pool, stealing unattended Cheetoes from unwitting children like impish rogues. They can be seen throughout the city, collecting shiny pieces of wire and straw for their nests. And they can be spied splashing in puddles and fountains, preening themselves narcissistically. 

The skies are filled with caws. But not only caws. Chirps, clicks, squaks, and squeaks. The birds seemingly have a language all their own. It would be too great a leap, perhaps, to call it discourse, but if language is a spectrum, the language of crows is on it. 

That crows can recognize humans faces (and other physical attributes) has been a staple of our experiences with them for thousands of years.  It’s part of what has allowed them to take such a prominent place within our cultures, and it’s what keeps us refilling our pockets with peanuts or treats, anxious for the chance to be recognized, to be seen -- but not just seen but recognized and welcomed, like a friend -- by a wild animal. If you’ve been committed to such a relationship, you probably found yourself wondering about what it is they’re saying. Parsing the language of crows is a hot topic in corvidology (the study of not only crows but also magpies, Jay's, and ravens). 

There are corvidologists who do study the language of crows, and a bountiful body of academic work on the topic exists; I encourage you to check it out. Me, its one more language I don't understand.  Like Sinhala (and this morning, on my run, two Sri Lankans attempted to engage me in full-on Sinhala; I must have assimilated into my surroundings more than I thought I had. One man walking briskly down the middle of the road, sporting a backpack and baseball hat, clearly appeared lost and must have been asking me for directions.  I could only shrug my shoulders. The second person was our street sweeper who wasn't on our street. I ran into her as I was passing Upalis, the restaurant where he often get string hoppers, curries, and political sambal on Sunday mornings. She approached me frantically, waving her arms in the air and assaulting me with a diatribe of uncomprehensible gibberish. Even if she raved in Tamil, I may have been able to pick up a word or two. Despite the significant language barrier, I understood the gist of what she was trying to tell me. If only because our old street sweeper, the one who had heart problems and disappeared for months only to be replaced by this woman, came by the house the day before yesterday to ask us for money and inform us he would soon he returning to work. He must have displaced the temporary street sweeper who had come to appreciate -- if not rely -- on our generous monthly tip. I told her I would try and come find her (who knows if she understood what I was saying) and interpreted her hand waving to indicate the general direction of where she could now be found. So, on our way to the pool, Clementine, Peter, and I drove ever-expanding concentric circles around her last known location to keep my promise. Alas, we came up empty. Though we did pass 20 or so other street sweepers who would have been happy to receive our tip, we never found the right woman.)

I do like to pretend the cawing is language. It makes life more interesting, if nothing else, like elvish or draconian. 

And why would I think so much about crows or even seek their company? When you live on the other side of the world from friends and family, you look for friendship in strange places. 

The Olympic Peninsula by Camper Van, Part Three - The Tree of Life

I don't know how we found ourselves here.  A magical land on the edge of the known universe.  Kalaloch. "Ka-LAY-lock."  Not, "KA-lay-lowch."  The air brushed the tent flaps on the pop-top, the evergreen's pointed spires swayed rhythmically in the whisper of the wind, as though in a choir, as though listening to the same song on pairs of headphones. It was early.  The sky took forever to lighten.  Several shades of blue and indigo painting the forest cerulean, the deep mystical gloaming of the innards of a fortune teller's tent, the electric, elemental thrum emanating from the crystal ball reflecting off the tent walls. 

Birds chirped in the trees.  I wriggled down lower under the Rumpl blanket, a space-age material that miraculously kept us warm during the short nights.  The birds tried to remind us where we were.  But how we had gotten there remained a mystery.  The architect of this adventure had lost the blueprints.  Jet lag was getting the better of us.  But things would get better.  By the time we got to Mora we would settle into our skins.  The names of places would stick better.  I would remember what we had for dinner the night before.   Or the night before that. 

But not yet.  For now, we were in Kalaloch, on the Pacific coast.  We camped on the mouth of the creek where fallen and felled trees washed up on shore, stacks of bleached logs.  The long, sugary white beach was wide and covered with the cracked carapaces of crabs fresh crom surgery.  Thousands of them, thin as paper and as fragile; they would fall apart between your fingers, dissolve into crustacean dust, foul-smelling of decay.

We climbed the Tree of Life.  The beach had collapsed under its roots, exposing a jungle gym-like apparatus perfect for climbing.  That night, as I prepared dinner, our neighbor at the campsite next door read loudly from a D.H. Lawrence-style travelog set in Botswana. It was heavy on descriptions of the mice and other rodents of the African serengheti.  It was hard not to eavesdrop, as loud as he was reading to his buddies, and endearing in a way. He could have been reading much worse.  

Olympic Peninsula by Camper Van, Part Two - The Hall of Mosses

The sunlight streamed through the evergreen trees, dreamlike when it came. There was not much in those first few days that did not seem as though conjured from Morpheus' land, the King of Dreams presiding over fantasies both from the realm of the sleeping and the awake, the lines between the two blurred as they were. We all suffered a sort of temporal dissonance, living in one time stream while attempting to function in another, no distinction between the land of the living and the sleeping. We stumbled through the forest, hurtling head first, at times, a cold mist stinging our lips, cheeks, and ears, kept on our feet by the wishes and desires of faery godmothers on insect wings translucent in that finicky and shy sunlight. 

Dragonflies beat their wings to blue indigo blurs, the timid, strained light reflecting blues and emerald greens off their armored, segmented bodies. They flew in pairs, one astride the other, maneuvering dangerously over open water. 

The idea of griddled coho salmon on the stove top coming to light, blistered baby red potatoes, sweet yellow corn, and an Elysium Space Dust IPA.

Clementine and her wizard staff, channeling her inner Gandalf. 

The return of the mythical super-gooey.

It wasn't enough to fish one bank of the Hoh. It was folly to think it might be. The wandering souls of small boys were, unfettered, on full display, as they should rightfully be. We walked across the fallen trunks of evergreens across waters both raging and timid, both just this side of melted glacier in temperature, the trunks wide enough to afford safe passage for even the least coordinated among us. Namely, myself. 

A rock field filled the middle of the Hoh, and it was not difficult to imagine that wide rock field under several feet of rushing melted snow falling from the Olympic Mountains.  Tree trunks wider than one could wrap their arms around, bleached white by the sun, lay like broken twigs on what once had been river bottom. A few short scrubs sprouted between the well-worn river rocks, far enough from one another to not be a regular occurrence or feature of the landscape.  Bright blue flowers dotted the ground at even wider intervals, and bees floated above their sweet cups invitingly. 

Elise and I ran the famous Hall of Mosses trail. Yes, we were those people, sprinting up the mountainside, legs spinning, mulch flying through the air in our wake. 

After the run, we gathered the rest of our party and took the path at a more leisurely pace. Though we saw more of the finer points of nature the second time, the jury is still out as to which was more enjoyable.