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by L.M. Archer, FWS | Bourgogne ML
Slouching Towards Lummi Island: Part 2 of 4
A writer’s job is to listen. To observe. To remain apart from the story.
That said, I recently traveled to Lummi Island to film a video episode for a food network.
Let’s just say that comfort zones may have been violated in the course of the project.
Mine. This is my story.
Note: This story has expanded to four parts.
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Slouching Towards Lummi Island
Part 2 of 4: Arriving
You need to take your bathroom and/or latte break before you reach the ferry to Lummi Island.
The Lummi ferry has no latte stands or public restrooms to greet visitors going to or leaving from the island.
A fact I discerned upon arriving at the deserted terminal before arrival of the 10:10 am ferry. Did I enjoy my ten-mile roundtrip retrace back to the nearest convenience station for industrial grade coffee and coffee mate fake creamer? Hey no.
But…I have work to do. And the universe has a diabolical sense of humor sometimes.
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The silvered skein of rain folds up as the ferry nears, replaced by a diffuse bolt of pale lemon keening across the bloated skyscape. Seagulls moil and screech above the patiently lapping shores. Dockside, I find the camera man Michael and his wife and assistant Ellen waiting for me by their silver truck. We’ll ride the ferry to Willows Inn on Lummi Island together.
Michael sported a cannabis-embroidered hat, rumpled look, and a calm borne of struggle polished fine. Soon, I discover his passion for cannabis oil equals my passion for pinot noir, though his passion derives from medical need, mine simply for hedonistic pleasure.
The ten minute ferry ride slides by in relative silence, until the ferry thunks its arrival against the dock. We’re here.
As we roll off the ferry onto the narrow island road, the tang of salt island air unleashes an unexpected wash of childhood sense memories, memories most Pacific Northwest natives carry on a cellular level.
Memories of summer days spent collecting sea-smoothed oyster shells from seaweed- strewn shores, of skipping stones into freezing, frothing brine, of scavenging for driftwood to fuel beachside bonfires later that night.
Of nights filled with salty, popping flames, the sizzle of grilling salmon and oysters, the hiss of steaming mussels and clams, and the warmth of wine-infused laughter as lulling as a bedtime story.
Another rush of island air hits me, and I regain my bearings. It’s gonna be a good day.
To be continued…
Part 1 of 4: Leaving
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