Warm Springs Interlude

We arrive in the tiny hamlet of Baranof at eight the evening of May 25th.  All that comprises the “town” are a half-dozen homes, a dock, a bath house, and a path uphill to the springs.  The focal point here is the hot springs.
 
We tie up, put our dock fee in the box, and take to the hill path. Along the boardwalk portion of the trail, we pass bear prints in soft mud and broken stems of skunk cabbage. Despite the invisible company, we have the hot springs to ourselves. Aboard Rapport, there's no shortage of hot water, especially when underway,  but that does not diminish the delight to float in hot, sulphur pools beside a steep, turbulent waterfall. I am sore: my arms unaccustomed to so much paddling. I am stiff: my body unused to so much sitting.
 
Next morning, we clamor into the kayaks to explore Warm Spring Bay. Last winter, Kent changed how the dingy is attached so that it’s easier to raise and lower. As a result, it’s awkward to move under and onto the transom. Then the maneuverings into the kayak are heightened by a fear of tipping into the cold water. The heave out is more the challenge—underscoring my aging, damaged body. I plop into the kayak and then upon returning, reach across the transom deck, grab the ladder, and pull myself aboard. Both offer a total lack of grace, generally accompanied by swearing.
 
This morning’s mission is to explore the salt lagoon. The connecting channel from bay to lagoon completely empties at low tide. On first pass our timing is off, and the channel is all rocks, but when we return twenty minutes later, we are able to walk, pulling our kayaks over a skim of water, and paddle around the lagoon noting the many sea urchin varieties and the thick smell of salt and seaweed in this stagnant water. Tide is rising and within twenty minutes there is enough to (sort of) paddle out. Oh, the power of the rising tide! It’s all of a knee deep but rushing in like a fire hose. I struggle: paddle in place, tire, stop paddling, and then shoot back into the lagoon. And oh, my Impatience! I could wait until it’s deeper, but we want to get out now!
 
Stuck: maybe this is the moment of breath, of acceptance.  When riding to a fence on my very bold horse Tiny, there was that moment a stride out, when I had to train myself to take a breath, to allow him his moment for take-off, and not chase him to the base, as my instinct desired. It was my moment of acceptance that he had picked his spot and asking for speed was only my nervous energy unnecessary. Stuck allows space to gather energy, trust the process, and allow the forward movement that is to follow.
 
Although asking for help is good too. On the bank, Kent takes my painter, and drags me forward a step and I then get a paddle deep enough to propel me through the gap and into Warm Spring Bay. In thirty minutes, the tide will allow easier passage. But I want to spend those thirty minutes in the bath house, and then we want to catch the tide on Rapport.
 
Leaving Baranof, we reconnect with the outside world and messages flood into my phone. Susanna has texted that her DC apartment was broken into the previous night. A thief entered their basement window with crowbar, pulled the TV off the wall, took all car keys on the counter, wrapped the TV in a blanket from the sofa, exited the apartment, went to the closest responding car, and drove off. This was hours ago—while I was soaking in a hot tub, or possibly paddling upstream. I have just texted to ask if she was home at the time when my phone rings: “weren’t you concerned,” she said.
 
In the deep inlets of Alaska, we reside within a quiet to which I am unaccustomed. Even hunkered down in Vermont, there is constant communication. While I celebrate this presence in the absence of interruptions, this text jolts. Yes, I am concerned.  This age of iphones have brought the luxury and security of knowing I can talk text at any time to check-in with my children. Alaska interrupts that security. 
 
Susanna was in fact in her bedroom and in the depth of sleep at the time, and she thought the noise outside her room was her roommate returning home. Her car, parked further away, was not the one stolen. The police have come, the search for the roommate’s car and the thief is on, and later the car will be found totaled. We talk.  I breathe; she is safe--and competent. 
 
Also surfacing: a photo from Graham showing our porch table set with plates of steak and salad, and full-bloom lilac trees in the background. I am missing the lilacs. It’s like missing fall foliage. They were barely buds when I left. I begin to chafe at absence, concerns, seasons, discontent, age, mission. All questions swirl like a shallow tide that I cannot gain traction in order to propel forward: What is this boat to me? When do I want to be on the boat? When do I want to be home in Vermont? What about horses and riding seasons?  Dogs on the boat? What do I do on the boat? What am I missing? What am I gaining?
 
Paddling upstream in less than a foot of water, I accept how apt the metaphor: stuck as how to integrate and move forward home and boat lives. In a few days, we fly out of Juneau to meet Susanna in Colorado Springs for her college graduation—one year later, on Covid time. A graduation ceremony, to remind us we are indeed moving forward. That even delayed plans are both forward movement and worth honoring. With the delay and passage of time, it would be easy to dismiss this event as no longer relevant but instead I am reminded plans don’t operate on the schedule we want, but its own timeline. And ceremony provides ritual to move forward and to celebrate together, to mark time passed, and accomplishments achieved.
 
As I packed up what was to stay on board, I handed Kent my Xtratuf boots knowing he would want them very clean in order to go below deck. As I emerged from the cabin, my bag in hand, I met him in the galley with a forlorn look,  “I thought it would float.”  He had dropped my boot into the ocean when washing it and it had sunk to the bottom of Auke Bay. A ll is not lost, just a boot. We float on, not stuck but  maybe requiring a little help and timing to move forward to destination unknown.

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