All I ever wanted

Adventure: a new and exciting experience.

Adventrue: a known and exciting experience.

My vacation is ending and a new adventure will begin (stay tuned). I am lucky. I have had many adventrues, but none so sweet as getting back. And within that adventrue are many. The poem in my last post came from home, an island and its memories. Here are some new ones mixed with old, because you can’t really separate them.

* * *

the incredibility of tidal standing waves washes over

cradled kelp heads green pink anemones speckled seals

these sound straight channels are never full never empty

twice a day they still rise fall whip around steady rocks

discreet violence that harbors flotsam memories

* * *

* * *

I am still seven inside and slept only three hours the night before, excited for the journey. But things do change. I am not seven, but seven times five; and while the child was eager to go, I am eager to come home.

Welded steel rattles, strains and pushes its mass against cormorant laden pilings and the rocky mainland; the same old rusty ferry sliding deep into the early mist caught between the islands. Breathe deep, exhale and let the salt spray drizzle muck up your glasses or you won’t make the transition in smoothly.

Sleepy legs under heavy bags push up the tarpaper boardwalk and find a spot for me to wait; the cold stone wall where I lean back on my warmed pack above the fuel stained creosote dock. I take in the busy view. I know the boat when it rounds the point. I rest, watching her come in.

I am the only passenger back. After hellos, we settle into comfortable silence and skirt the shores before crossing the channel. The waves are small, constant and graceful; dancing with bull kelp among familiar carved conglomerate; lifting then dropping sea birds just a foot; slapping the metal bow just hard enough that my knees bend and straighten in time.

But things do change. The dock is taller but the dockhouse is the same, although shifted to where you can not leap, and so the resulting difference in jumping height is similar. The water seems colder and trees seem smaller, although they’ve grown. Cell phones work, making logistics simpler, but not simple.

By three boats I landed on three islands, each dock smaller until none, just a gravel beach in a protected rocky bay. The second run brings friends, flowers and spiced beans; the beginning of festivities no one can dispute. I smile, breathe, exhale and clean my glasses.

* * *

I am alone and quiet, snuggled into the orchard, thankful for the clearing. Cassiopeia rises, her W matching the jagged tree line. Breathe, exhale, my glasses were already off so I stretch and lay back. I spy a shooting star and watch its long fall. It burned, lit and then exploded in the atmosphere. Alone in the silence I whoop, hands up in appreciation, and wonder who else saw it.

* * *

Many good hugs hello don’t make up for one goodbye.