Weekend at Granny's

June snuck up more stealthily than ever this year, and with it, my rank as step-mother of a seventeen-year-old. To celebrate her birthday, Avery did a whale watch excursion with her dad. Neither of them had ever been out in the Salish Sea looking for orcas, and the Clipper delivered on their first try. They stalked a pod of five rolling, jumping whales through the sunshine into Canadian waters, and had dinner in Friday Harbor. The teenager was in pleasant spirits even 14 hours after an unspeakably early Saturday morning. The dad, though, was spellbound. He spent Sunday online studying "their" whale pod and the jackpot San Juan Island lookout point called Lime Kiln state park. On Tuesday someone filmed almost ten minutes of orcas coasting and frolicking along the park's edge, and posted it to YouTube. On Wednesday Phil came home early, announced that he was taking Friday off, and found a vacancy at a bed and breakfast five minutes down the road from Lime Kiln. On Thursday, in the midst of an emotionally thorny meeting at school, I got a text that said "Shooting at SPU. I love you. Let's get the fuck out of town." Let's indeed.

We left the house and the bewildered cats at 7am, aiming for the 9:30 ferry out of Anacortes, since the next one didn't depart until mid-afternoon. We didn't know if we'd stay one night or two (and only had the B&B booked for Friday), but we set out with full duffle bags, exhaustive camera gear, two camp chairs and an empty cooler. Hardly more than an hour into the trip, as we started across hwy 20 and Padilla Bay emerged on my passenger side, I seemed to be seeing a new version of things. The little islands in the bay behind the Swinomish Casino struck me as exotic; same for the view of Guemes Channel and the sun glinting off Mt. Baker beyond it as we waited in the ferry line. How long since I'd been to Anacortes? Forever for all I knew this morning. The ferry ride to Friday Harbor was certainly a novelty, brimming with cormorants and the many waterfront houses on the many novel islands – was it the brightness of the weather, or of our spontaneous runaway, or a mix of serendipities, which made everything beyond the ferry window effervescent? Phil was just plain happy, and so was I.

The punctilious proprietress of our lodgings, an elderly-sounding lady named Helen, had asked us to call her when we disembarked the ferry, so we did. It was not yet 11am, and she said we'd need to wait until 2:00 to check in, as she had to "go to recycling and market" first. Island living! We drove through the mile-wide town, into the fields, and across the island to Lime Kiln park. The white board in the gift-shop said the last orca sighting was yesterday at 4:30. Phil talked to the curator about which ones had come by, as he was quickly becoming an expert on the local groups known as J and L pods. Was it any of the ones he'd seen last week from the Clipper, maybe the matriarch Granny? The oldest tracked orca at 103 years (older than the Titanic!), she was his favorite. The impression was growing in me that we might not leave this place until he'd captured her, or at least a whale that might be her, again in his own camera.

We each grew up in the US's amusement park capitals -- at Bush Gardens, MarineLand, or SeaWorld, we had spent lots of adolescent time squealing in the splash zone bleachers as some Shamu dazzled the crowd. We thought we were friends of the Killer Whales. Then last year we watched the film "Blackfish," and whether you view it as a documentary or a propaganda piece, we were both beside ourselves with naive shock and shame. Now Phil was getting absorbed in the regal creatures' history, community membership, and conservation enterprise, and he was drawing me along with him. To potentially see them for the first time, at their leisure in the actual sea, was feeling more profound by the moment. But there were many other things to be regaled by in this state park as well, starting with the Madrona trees. Authentically coastal to me, like their frequent neighbor the eucalyptus, I was gratified to find them so plentifully at home in Washington. We took the gentle trail in two different directions along the rocky shore, keeping at least one of our four surveillance eyes on the water at all times.

There were hardly enough other people in the park for us to even notice. It was sea-breezy but the full sun on long sleeves kept things cozy; on two different picnic benches I stretched out on my back with my cap over my face while Phil camped with patient determination behind his lens. We cased the lighthouse as the lookout point with the widest line of sight, and went up a Madrona hill to peer down on the actual ancient lime kiln, set back in a small cove. We were reading its history on the lookout tablet when we heard a distinct "poof" and darted to the tree line--that was a whale spout, no question, and though we didn't see the whale yet, we saw a cluster of kayaks scoot deliberately back from the open water into the cove. Phil galloped down the hill to get a better view and as I stepped more carefully in his wake, I glimpsed the swoosh of a gray thing slipping along the water's surface. When I caught up to Phil, he had passed someone who spotted the thing in full and reported, "It's just a Minke whale." Just! Any whale in the water right in front of you is worth a bit of giddiness.

It was enough for now. We drove north a little more and stopped to reflect by a quiet green lake in the roadside woods, and then on the cliff at the seaside campground of San Juan County Park. Finally then, we headed for Helen's Highland Inn. It was tucked away, and we had to ring the doorbell. Helen came to the door hunched and creaking a little, but happy to welcome us through "the living room" and into our suite, one of only two at the place (Helen lived upstairs). She adamantly educated us on every last amenity -- robes in the closet; complimentary sodas and chilled glasses in the mini-fridge; mechanics of the TV, wifi, fireplace, jetted tub and steam shower; 200° water view from the deck. 

Phil seemed speechless. I asked if the room was available Saturday night as well. "I think so," said Helen, "I'll check and you can let me know if you want to stay another night. Would you like breakfast served in here or in the dining room? And what would you like to drink? And how do you take that coffee? And do you have any special food needs, anything you don't like for breakfast?"

This was Phil's first time at a B&B. He was somewhat wedged between the concern for decorum in the slight lack of privacy, and the idyllic appointment of the quarters, but the latter had the upper hand. When we went out for our duffle bags, the corner of my eye caught a big orange cat on the walkway behind a tree. I turned to get it in full view and let out a little gasp. "I'm looking at a fox," I said. "Huh?" I pulled Phil in front of me by his sleeve. "That. Is a fox. Right there." The old fox assessed us, turned and took two steps, and lay down for a nap on the lawn.

"Hey Helen," Phil called toward her office as we carried in our bags, "does a fox live here?" She looked up from a cooking show on the mini- TV amidst paperwork on her tidy desk. "Is it the red fox or the black one? There are pictures of them in the living room. They don't mind us at all; that old one sits with me while I do the watering. She was limping pretty badly a few weeks ago but she seems better now." Phil went back out immediately with the camera.

I flung open the sliding door and the windows in the suite and lay down for a nap of my own in the sea breeze and bird music. My shutterbug returned to join me, but sat up an hour later and said he was going back to the park -- if his J-pod was there at 4:30 yesterday, they might be there again today. I wished him well but could not be roused. I had just emerged from sleep, freshened up and gone out to the deck chair, when he came back. Sooner than I expected, I said. "I hung out with a harbor seal on a rock close to shore," he said, "but there were no orcas, and anyway I'm starving." So we went to Friday Harbor. Parked in front of the liquor store; picked up champagne, Newcastle, and two tiny bottles of triple cream liqueur for our breakfast coffee; then took inventory of the waterfront eateries. I chose the Cask and Schooner, for its theme, and it was a good choice. Best poutine ever. We drove home to the inn through a pink sunset, and reviewed the day's photos on the laptop, before cuddling into the middle of the king bed under a pile of calico blankets.     

The wake-up call was woodpecker summoning a mate with racket on the rain gutter overhead. I took some essays out on the deck to grade until Helen called to make sure we were ready for breakfast. It came in two courses: fruit over yogurt followed by huge ham and cheese omelets and muffins. We each ate three quarters worth, out of some weird guilt, and stashed the muffins in the mini-fridge. When she came to retrieve her wicker tray we told Helen we'd like to stay another night, and she said she'd give us a discount. We packed some of her complimentary fruit and sodas, and headed north intending to circle the island. First we checked in at the park of course. Today's curator said humpbacks had just cruised by. Damn. We went down some side streets in Smugglers Cove and then pulled off the main road to check out Snug Harbor Resort. A man approached our car in the parking lot and asked through my rolled-down window, "Are you guys whale watchers?" I replied eagerly, "Yes! Have you seen any today?" He said he was heading out on a whale watch and looking for the rest of his tourists. "Are you Captain Maya?" Phil asked him. Of course he was, the very tour guide Phil had chosen from last Sunday's research as the one with whom he wanted to cruise out next time. So they had a nice chat about hearing a lot about you and hopefully not from my ex-wife. When I peeked into the resort office to get a brochure, the manager asked if I wanted a tour of the new cabins. Why not? We got the full walk-through and a plug for the beachfront fire pits and complimentary kayaks, with no hard sell, just pride of ownership. We swore to return and continuing up the road to Krystal Acres alpaca farm, where the freshly sheared rainbow of precious little camelids were lounging in the roadside shade, just waiting for the paparazzi. 

Next was a cursory drive by the upscale vintage Roche Harbor, and then, in search of a bathroom, we found the San Juan Vineyards, where an afternoon eight-pour tasting was just getting started. That was a splendid hour in the garden, with the Sangiovese and a blush called "afterglow" earning my highest marks; Phil was partial to the cab franc. Across from the Duck Soup Inn we pulled over to try and capture a couple of bald eagles on film, then it was on to the whale museum, which Phil and Avery had run out of time for a week ago. We learned lots more about Granny and her clan, studied skeletons and life stories of every creature that inhabits the Salish Sea and similar settings, and acquired souvenirs including an identification book for all 80 of the resident pods.

Then we decided to go back to Lime Kiln for the potential afternoon show. Thankfully the snack stand was not-quite-closing so I grabbed some hummus and crackers, but while I was munching them I lost track of Phil and spent a half hour wandering by myself toward a new beach cove we hadn't seen yesterday. I found him eventually, camouflaged in some rocks back near the lighthouse. There we lounged in the sun, shifting position periodically when a rock got too pokey, waiting for whales to shoot and shooting other things instead, luxuriating in being outside, being together, being away away away from it all, until after six o'clock. Then Phil threw in the towel on the orca pictures. Back at the suite, he nibbled the cookies Helen had left outside the our door, and photographed a hummingbird while I jumped in the shower.

Feeling summer-kissed and ready to picnic on leftovers in the room for the night, I opened the champagne and poured a big chilled glass. I started to dry my hair and suddenly heard Phil yelling over the noise of the dryer. He was still on the deck, now with the binoculars, pointing at several spouting whales below. "That's them. Holy Shit. This really is the Whale Watch Suite." I quickly poured the champagne into my water bottle and filled the pockets of my fleece with small supplies. "If that's them," I said, "Let's go." Let's go back? Yep, let's go back.

We got to the park in three minutes; the last of the day's wanderers were returning to their cars. "Don't say anything," Phil whispered. "Okay. You go on; I'll catch up." He raced to his afternoon spot on the lower rocks and I strolled to a perch in front of the lighthouse. Sipping my champagne and loving the evening air, I had my eye on two boats that seemed to be converging about a mile to the south. That means whales, maybe. Only two other people were anywhere near me; I kicked my flipflopped feet back and forth and breathed deeply the breeze, thinking just this was just fine. Then I saw the black flashes of dorsal. I dropped my plastic bottle on the rock and my hand went to my heart. All by myself in the twilight, seeing killer whales swim in front of me, in the sea. It was all that. "They're here," I texted Phil, and then he was beside me. A dozen other people, park and conservation regulars mostly, gathered around. And the whales roamed casually on by. That's Mike, someone said, and Granny's in the lead. So Granny had been the first one I saw. And over the next half hour, as the sun set into Victoria and the pod headed toward its sublime amber bridge across the water, I saw at least four others. Nobody breached or even came very far out of the water, but they weaved through the gentle waves enough to make a show, the best kind, and Phil got his pictures.

We went back to the room and reviewed the day, listening to our favorite songs on the iPod, and finished the bottle of champagne. From my pillow I could watch the half-moon rise over the water. I don’t know what beats that. Sunday Breakfast was berries and yogurt now in a cantaloupe ring, followed by astounding blueberry soufflés in individual wicker ramekins. We packed up and while settling the bill had a good long chat with Helen, about her kids and grandkids and even great-grandkids, about the pile up of real estate inventory on the island, and about her travels to excavation sites in Peru with her pilot husband. Too long a chat, maybe, as we were just a few cars late for the 11am ferry out; next one at 2:30. No matter. We wandered the docks and shops of Friday Harbor in full, coveting beautifully restored boats, perusing real estate flyers, conspiring toward island life. So uncharacteristically unconcerned about returning to the real world at a civilized hour, about anything really, it was a wonder, a blessing. On the ferry we got to park next to the rail from which vantage point we were treated to the crossing of some "transient" orcas. The wonder would not let us go.    

I get it now, completely, why and how the weekend warriors do it. We don't really qualify as full-on warriors yet, but we remembered and learned the energizing power of just going for it. Intention can be worth as much as a well-laid plan. I thought I'd seen everything in the Pacific Northwest -- the same old evergreen and fern forests on the same islands and passes in the same gray Sound and drab lakes, the same quaint little harbor towns and shotgun roadside attractions, the same longhouses and salmon tchotchke and otters and eagles, from Hood River to Winthrop to Neah Bay -- and I was almost over it. But somehow this weekend everything looked new. It ain't the tropics, or the sultry southern Atlantic, or even the elemental California 101, but it's home, this remarkable Salish Sea, and I have only begun to know it.