This weird little life of mine

Who does this? Who would choose to work like this?

Do we all think we’re weird? That we don’t fit in? or maybe it’s care about the things everybody else seems to….? I’m trying to figure out if it’s just me or maybe we all feel that way. I’ve been reading about Margaret Fuller, colleague of Emerson and Thoreau. Amazing woman, who knew from the get-go she didn’t fit in. Last week a note popped up on my phone— a quote from my granddaughter I had written down when she was four. “Coco, I’m not a regular kid, am I?” The fact that she thought about it resonated with me. I knew the same about me, but I really wonder if in fact, we all feel that way.

By second grade I was asking my mom why it was hard for me to number the lines on the spelling tests every Friday? Not hard like too difficult. Hard like too boring. Always the same ol’ 1 to 20. Always on the left-hand side of the page. I didn’t understand why I got so bored while the rest of the class didn’t seem to mind. So I made up games to entertain myself. I’d jump my pencil around on the thin blue lines and guess where 14 would be, or 18. I wondered if I was cheating because I remembered where 20 was at the bottom of the page from last week… I liked to see how close I could come with all the numbers. Something had to keep me engaged.

And here I am starting to wonder if that’s still what I do —make up weird little routines and sometimes even major life choices, to entertain myself?

I am indeed very proud of my beachcombing trophy: black bear skull with three great teeth in it and two perfect scapula, south of Ketchikan.

Like running an inn in the Caribbean? Or cooking for, and helping run a nonprofit science research vessel in the wildest corners of coastal Alaska? That’s where I’ve been and where I am, respectively. Meanwhile I’m still trying to figure out if the rest of the class happy just staying the course and following orders.

To this day doing repetitive things for very long is a stretch for me. Following directions — like recipes— is difficult for me, especially if they don’t make sense. I think I’ve followed a recipe a few times in my 69 years. And yes, I’m theoretically called a cook. It’s sort of a joke. And yes, I’ve checked my credit card charges a couple of times in my life and balanced my checkbook at least once. And when I hear that some folks do it regularly, or that they save receipts to go back and compare with their credit card charges… That’s when I know I’m weird, and happy to be. If that’s normal. No judgment mind you —just different ways we like to spend our time…

Like today. I’m making toasted bagels with cream cheese, sliced sausages, cucumbers, and tomatoes. That’s not so weird. What’s weird is I’m making the sandwiches on a boat rocking in a cove off of Coronation Island, a small out of the way, ocean-facing island in Southeast Alaska. This cove is the sad site of a tragic shipwreck, the Star of Bengal, that went down in 1909.

It ain’t much but it fills the bill. Camp cookin’ at its finest.

What’s weird is that the boat is really rocking and rolling while we are anchored. It’s an interesting sort of aerobic challenge to cook like this, in this condition. Mt body swaying one way and the boat another. The cutting board coming up closer or being further than I expected. The level of every liquid ebbing and flowing, almost, with each swell, and then of course there’s the jars of pickles, and dishes that slide across the counter back-and-forth every few minutes. And you all wonder how I’ve gotten so Zen…

Yep, this is weird. Even weirder is that because of the need to be at this specific wreck site, we will be here all day, every day for the next ten, while the archaeologists, divers and drone operators do their research. I’m used to rocking and rolling when we’re underway. I know how to make simple lunches, and dinners that work. But on this trip, being at anchor is as roly poly as it ever gets underway. And seeing how I’m cook – it’s my job to get something resembling a meal together for nine, hungry, hard-working folks three times a day. That’s a lot of sliding butter dishes. Our guests assume I do it for the love of cooking. I can assure you… that ain’t the case. So I’m trying to figure it out. Why do I do it? Why would anyone do it?

But then why do the divers go diving? And why does Bill choose to spend his time tinkering and fixing and understanding things. Are we all trying to make our spelling test, day-to-day life more interesting?

Who does this? Who would do this when they used to be happily retired? It’s a funny weird job. And not even a job. It’s totally volunteer. 100% labor of love. It’s totally out of love for the wilderness, the kids we bring into it, the importance of the research our scientists do, and the partner I do it with. That’s a lot of love, but it’s needed to have a lot to spread out in different directions to smooth out the bumpy ride and make it all worthwhile.

The fact is, I don’t quite understand why I love it so much… I get virtually no real exercise, nothing like yoga or even a brisk walk or long hike, much time with friends or even to myself to collect my thoughts. But these days I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing. Thinking can get me into trouble. I’m not sure about anything anymore… All I know for sure is that:

My day starts at 6 am when my phone vibrates an alarm that it’s time to start the generator. Think McHale’s Navy or Das Boot and those weird metal watertight doors with giant latches. Just the noise unlatching probably wakes folks in the aft cabin. But when the generator kicks in… Phew, that means I’ve done it right. Always a relief — except for those trying to sleep.

The boat gets noisy and I get moving. Sometimes I’m dressed, other days I’m still in my nightgown. Sometimes barefoot, sometimes hair-brushed. Sometimes I run into folks already awake, sometimes I have the whole half hour to myself before there’s anyone that needs questions answered, or wants to chat. To be honest, that’s my preference.

First priority of course — coffee. Duh…. If I'm on my game, I’ll have prepped it the night before. Like right now I’m realizing I didn’t. Ugh. But it feels so good to have snuck away to my little cabin for the evening on the early side. Just too wiped out to go up and deal with it now. Wait! Did I remember to defrost something for tomorrow? Argh. What about the hard boiled eggs for the morning? Screw it. I’ll do oatmeal.

My brain doesn’t like linear repetitive but it does like organization and categorization. Without it, cooking for a crowd in a galley would be impossible. Everything I need to know, I learned at La Finca Caribé.

.My day goes on from there. I have about two hours between cleanup from one meal to prepping the next. And that’s what I get to do the work I love the most – talking to interested students and parents; networking with prospective faculty and donors. And every now and then I’m asked to drive the boat. It’s all good with me. It’s all sort of like jumping around on that spelling test page. Sort of like bouncing and sliding around the galley. Sort of like the weird fact that I find myself thinking about freakin’ food in every other waking thought. And now here I am writing about it. That’s weird too.

Sort of like choosing to work from 6am to 8pm. More than sort of, a lot like running the Finca. Do we see a pattern here?

Back in sweet Port Townsend, my home on Terra Firma, I have both free time and other things to think about —like whether plants need watering, when to have the grandkids up, what movie or music is playing, or what the hell are we going to do to voice our resistance to the takeover. But all that goes away up here.

I wonder if that’s why I choose, and love, this weird little life. Little in it’s spaceship like bubble we live in, small in its simplicity,and at the same time, a huge — wide, open, wild, and wondrous— life when I look at the space between us and the islands and mountains scattered around us, going on for hundreds of miles, when I feel the cool freshness of the wind off the Pacific, find pieces of the shipwreck’s hull on shore or just sitting and watching the clouds morph. That was yesterday’s activity that somehow spanned from the infinite to the smallest…

At the cove where The Star of Bengal went down with 111 lives . Pic by Sean Adams

By the time I was in fourth grade, we were studying explorers and I remember knowing I would have wanted to be on those ships. I remember clearly, knowing I wasn’t suited to be Magellan, but I really liked the idea of exploring, being navigator sounded good to me. And later, I knew I’d like to be Sacajawea. I had graduated from entertaining myself renumbering spelling tests pages. It felt good to learn about others who must’ve known they didn’t fit in and didn’t want to.

Now it feels good to be one of those role models for grandkids and all those kids who come on board, wondering if it’s OK that they don’t fit in. Like the old bumper sticker on our family’s Dodge Caravan asked: “Why be normal?”

Indeed. That is the question from first grade to now. If this is what I get for choosing the other course, then my crazy plan is working. And if it’s ship’s cook, rather than navigator for my title, so be it. Besides sometimes I help with the navigation in my downtime.

Onward all….

PS. Thanks to all of you who sent me the smaller signature! Now — I’d be curious if you feel the same, this feeling of being an outsider. Would be funny if it turned out that everybody did —

and in fact, there was no normal.