Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Now I land at Blue Fox Bay, five years later. It's so quiet here that airplanes don't even bother to fly overhead. Solar panels reflect the blue of sea and sky. A cat surprises me with a hiss through the windowpane. Today the bay ripples quietly, tomorrow it may thrash. Buoys and bones punctuate the landscape and the hearth. Stories sneak beneath the keys of the piano, into the yellowed photographs under the wall of guns. Venison steaks melt in our mouths a syrup of grass, streams, and subtle Kodiak light the buck survived on. Colleen's cooking could launch 1,000 ships. I hunger to do nothing, and satisfy my hunger perched in a corner with a pen, a book, a half-knit sweater.
I am new here. I know the basics about this place. Anjuli's Grandpa Slim lived here, now buried out back with his friend Al. The world comes here, and the evidence is not only felt but seen. Business cards with titles like Adventurer. Long-Distance Rower. CEO. Dreamer. The French girl who suggested Colleen soak nasturtium in her vinegar. The Belgian who taught her to add cream and nutmeg to the juices that ran off her wild mushrooms.