October 17 2009
Flying in the fog 6:34 am, somewhere over Peril Strait, or perhaps crossing Chatham, hooking over Stephen’s Passage. The fuselage bounces in the turbulence outside the windows, lasers of rain illuminated to look like snow. Wisps of cloud vapor curl over the wing.
21 minutes to Juneau. We start our descent.
NOTES ON THE ADAK
– The engine is direct-reversible, therefore you need to reverse the direction of the shaft in order to back up so not a lot of opportunity for fancy maneuvering
– The trick of operating her is letting her drift
– She’s 187 tons so once she’s moving in a direction she doesn’t want to deviate too much off-course
– Steven the former owner would let her drift for ten minutes on course – point her in once direction and cut the engine
– He raised three kids on the Adak
Morning in Sitka without breakfast. Waking at 4:45 climbing down from the stateroom, sound of the boiler switching on and off at 8-minute intervals, almost stuffy warm in the galley, the iron and porcelain wood stove waiting for orders in the corner. Heading outside in the quiet harbor dark.
Spencer checked her out yesterday. Said I’d be crazy to buy her. If I can live with that then it might be fun.
Water streams horizontal off the Plexiglas as we dogleg into the awkward airport of Alaska’s capital. That sudden bank just before landing.
Photos:
Oak cabinetry - galley October 2009
View from right off Halibut Point Road - October 2009
Spencer - October 2009
View from Rick's trailer - October 2009
Wood stove in kitchen - October 2009
My grandfather’s uncle went on the Klondike Gold Rush in 1898. Later on, during the great San Francisco fire, he was told to evacuate his house, on pain of being shot.
“Shoot and be damned,” he told the police.
His folks from Salem Oregon. On my father’s side generations in Greenville South Carolina and Native American blood, originally Scots-Irish, rumors of affairs with slaves, my mother’s grandmother born in a Ukranian shtetl arrived in New York City fleeing the pogroms, great-grandfather Isaac dressing as a woman for the escape.
Goin’ out west to where the sand turns into gold, put on your stockings babe, ‘cause the night’s gettin’ cold
