quiet world

On the morning of July 24th, it was raining, and I was happy. Our ten-years-together anniversary weekend would be cocooned in a cozy drizzle, just like the late-summer months of our courtship had been -- after the initial caution of wondering-is-this-the-one broke with the heat wave, when we floated among the Bumbershoot crowds, a private island, kissing under the shelter of every dripping tree. As it was then, the parched world was now drinking deeply. A lunch-time Bremerton ferry brought us to Seabeck just as the sun shot through the clouds, spotlighting our little beach-front retreat with its overturned row boats, fishing rods, and oyster shells scattered across the bulwark; its tree house and porch swing; a bottle of wine and garden bouquet left with a "happy anniversary" card on the breakfast table by the owner. She shortly came down from the main house we were nestled under to point out all the amenities, apologizing for the burn ban that kept her from providing her famous fire pit s'mores basket. I assured her we'd be just fine without the fire and she left us to our 40ish hours of total privacy, peace and quiet.

Once situated, we drove two minutes down the road for supplies. First we came to a community clam bake park, a grassy acre outfitted with long brick grills and picnic tables. Next to it was a marina, a cafe, pizzeria, general store, miniature wellness spa, and gift shop. Across the street was the sprawling conference center, a cacophony of youth groups and counselors who barked teamwork commandments across the lawn and canoed the lagoon in blindfolds. This was town.  

We got champagne, beer, and a bigfoot mug at the store, but it was more camp supplies and novelties than mainstream grocery fare. Though the crunchy cricket and larvae snacks were tempting, we intended to eat only from our mini-fridge all weekend, so we needed a full deli. Before reaching the Safeway in Poulsbo, we got sidetracked by the charming blocks of its Nordic-proud downtown, which neither of us had ever happened to wander before. One collectibles store swallowed us into its labyrinthine crannies for an hour. We noted the aquarium for our next visit, and procured a box of pastries (including a cinnamon "viking cup") and a bag of cheese rolls from Sluys' bakery. Then we drove to another marina where sea lions were cavorting in the breeze-ruffled bay. We finally got our groceries and made it back to the guest house in time to pull two lawn chairs up to the receding tide and drink almost our whole bottle of champagne under the last of the overcast daylight.

For the first time in months we craved sweatshirts, and I even brought a blanket outside to cover our laps when we moved up to the porch swing. There we cuddled, watching the water turn glassier and noting with delight each fish that sprang up in a blink from the surface. Their splashes, and the barely lapping tide, were the only breaks in the exceptional quiet. We were almost whispering our lively conversation, tracking the dynamic swaths of cloud and corresponding shadow that veiled the emerald Olympic ridges directly across the water, consulting the Google Earth app on the tablet to identify which peaks and valleys were which. Looking north at the orange glow of Port Townsend, we knew the stars were now out above the clouds, and we took our party inside. It only lasted an hour though -- such island quiet infallibly encourages a bedtime well before our usual post-midnight. And drifting off to those barely lapping waves through the open window makes for a powerful sleep indeed.

Consequently, I rose at a spritely 7am. It was raining earnestly, so what could I do but brew some English Breakfast, cut a couple of pastries in half, and settle in with the new novel I'd brought along. I was more than halfway through it when Phil, after his mid-morning nap, suggested it might be fun to stretch our legs in town for a spell.

In the drizzly parking lot there was a laminated sign regarding a lost Lego Luke Skywalker figurine. A family was stocking their fishing cooler at the general store; I bought another bottle of wine and Phil bought a Snickers bar. We continued down the road, past the conference center and the elementary school, finding our way to Miami Beach Road and Scenic Beach State Park. The park was full of coastal forest trails, secluded camp spots, and picnic clearings, in one of which we found an intrepid wedding party setting up next to the community center house. DAN + JEN said the string of pastel pennants across the eaves. The rain had tapered off, for Dan and Jen's sake I hoped for the rest of the day, but with the high tide hour closing in we were wary of setting off on an extended beach walk which could pin us against the embankment or among the tangled Madrona roots. We extended the driving tour instead, winding our way around Misery point and surveying the cliff-side real estate -- there was a lot of property for sale, which I would of course research as soon as we returned to our home in the city that seemed increasingly infernal to me with each of these summer escapes.

The green infinity of the trees and the clusters of roadside deer made just driving a pleasure, but we returned to base in time for an afternoon buffet of sliced mango, pesto salad, fried chicken, and cheese rolls. Then we took to our books again, me bundled up in the chaise lounge on the windy lawn. The sky was resigned to complete overcast and the humidity had Phil still craving a sweatshirt, since he hadn't actually packed one. A quick adventure to the Silverdale Wallmart? Why not. While there, we also picked up a discount DVD of a certain John Hughes collection Phil had inexplicably never seen. We returned to warm sleepwear and spent another twilight hour on the porch swing, listening to the rain drops patter from the trees onto the oyster shells beneath them. A magnificent heron sailed across our field of view, wing tips grazing the flat water. We peered into the mist for sea lions or otters or even a rogue whale further out into hood canal, but saw only the flickering lights of Brinnon across the way and the slowly rotating, apparently abandoned boat anchored 50 yards in front of the house.

At full dark we watched one of the movies and then retired to bed. I woke still earlier on Sunday, to a luminous gray dawn so tranquil that even the tide had ceased lapping; we had been transported to some lush misty moon world. Curled up on the couch as if in a charmingly cushioned snow-globe, with another cup of tea and half a pastry, I finished the novel. (For a basically-one-day beach-read, The Girl on the Train, aka "The New Gone Girl," is good fun.) When Phil woke up we packed the remaining provisions into the cooler, showered, dressed in brunch-worthy clothes, and had one last cup on the porch swing. At our designated 10am checkout time we loaded the car and stood chatting with the homeowners in the driveway for a few minutes. Both retired teachers, they affirmed that even grading-filled weekends were vastly improved by the water and solitude here. They had carved out this life deliberately, my heroes.

We had a 1pm date in Poulsbo with friends who live there. We parked in the same main-street lot we had on Friday afternoon, now with over two hours to spare. A stroll along the water-front park, a couple more antique and collectibles stores, and we arrived at the aquarium. Inside the doors a teenage volunteer stood diligently at the touch "tide pool", directing us to touch this but not that after we has please washed out hands. We opted for looking only. Behind the touch pool was an open topped tank which supposedly housed an octopus, a glimpse of whom we soon gave up on. In the hall behind that was a mesmerizing black circle filled with delicate moon jellyfish, parachuting gracefully up and down like ballerinas, long threads of their white dresses trailing all around them. In the next room my interest was snagged by one of several cylindrical tanks that various sea stars and polyps shared with a pair of Dungeness crabs. These crabs were clinging to the top of a slim pipe, and to each other, such that it was hard to tell which legs belonged to which or where else one crab was distinct from the other, especially in the distortion of the glass corner. It became clear that the pair was engaged in nothing more than hanging on, but I couldn't take my eyes off the ever- adjusting digits of their embrace. One was revealed to be missing a leg, and he or she let a wrong grip go and tumbled in slow motion to the bottom of the tank. I may have gasped.

That was it for the exhibits. There was a kid's activity room full of easels and paint but no kids. The kids were on the other side of the building in a small theater, where David Attenborough was narrating an ocean documentary on the screen. The round room had four tiers of carpeted benches covered with throw pillows, some shaped like fish; we planted ourselves on the top row and reclined contentedly through the remaining 40 minutes of the film. Then we went to the restaurant -- The Loft -- a few minutes early and I had an outstanding bloody mary while awaiting our friends. They arrived congratulating us on a fine weekend retreat and a fine decade. Both the menu and the conversation were lively and we accommodated dessert by strolling down one of the marina docks, past a diverse assortment of boats, toward more sea lions napping on the damp wood planks at the end. Before we could reach them the rain drizzle increased, and our walk back to the cars was brisker, our goodbye hugs hasty.

We decided to take the Kingston ferry home, so we sat in the roadside line for almost an hour, and then in the ferry waiting lot for almost another hour, with the sunroof cracked and the rain pelting all around. But we remained in our bubble the whole time, remembering the first ferry lines and rides together to the first peninsula and San Juan adventures. As it was then, the quiet world of our own was plenty.