We hauled up anchor in Genoa Bay, British Columbia, on a morning in August. As I was putting the cover on the windlass, Laurie turned our boat 180 degrees and I began my long journey south to Burbank, California.
We had planned on a three-week cruise north, but my sister had passed away and I wanted to go down to her funeral.
To get there required a variety of transportation. It would be a two-and-a-half hour trip to Roche Harbor. Fortunately, we had left early because we were held up for about half an hour when two pods of whales were feeding in our path. As many times as I have watched the so-called “killer” Whales, their grace and beauty never ceases to amaze me.
I had to remind Laurie that I had to catch a float plane in Roche Harbor and we were running out of time. We cleared customs at Roche Harbor 30 minutes later and radioed the port captain for a vacant slip to leave our boat in while I was gone.
My plan was to catch a Kenmore Beaver float plane and fly south to Seattle about an hour away. The Kenmore, DeHavilin, float planes were last manufactured in 1956, but they always look brand new because of a great maintenance program.
Laurie docked the boat and I packed for the balance of the trip to my sister’s funeral. We got to the float plane dock as the Beaver landed and taxied to the float. As the engine shut off it glided up to the dock and out jumped a very attractive young lady named Anna.
She wore the required white shirt with the epaulets of rank clearly displayed. She had learned to fly at Utah State University and spends her summers flying for Kenmore all over the northwest. When the summer season slows down she works on the ski patrol at Mount Rose, Nev.
I quickly dozed off and half an hour later I could look out the window on the left side of the plane and begin to see the houses below getting closer and closer together. It is as though they have all been sucked into a vortex that originally was a trading center for furs, timber and gold, called Seattle.
Landing in Lake Union, I climbed into a van for the freeway ride to Sea-Tac International Airport.
When you haven’t been on a freeway for a month or so it can be intimidating. Fortunately, I wasn’t driving and the young driver was dodging and weaving as though every minute saved on his trip was money in his pocket.
My journey through security at airports is always a hassle. I have a 16-inch rod in my right leg from a fishing boat accident so I am always asked, “Have you ever done this before?”
I was able to scam a window seat at the exit for more leg room and fell asleep reading the latest large print copy of Reader’s Digest, which I’m reduced to since my macular degeneration kicked into high gear.
I awakened to look out at blue sky and brown earth covered with brown air.
We were letting down from 42,000 feet over Santa Barbara, Calif., and the pilot reported “visibility 10 miles, wind out of the southwest at 5 miles per hour, temperature at the Burbank Airport is 107 degrees … that’s right, 107 degrees Fahrenheit,” he continued.
I had hoped my culture shock was over when I was out on the freeway. No such luck.
I was born in Hollywood, when San Fernando land could be bought for $50 an acre. Today, you are lucky if you can buy dinner for two for $50.
A fire was raging on the Palos Verdes peninsula and another one in La Crescenta, and as I walked off the airplane I was hit by the blast furnace of 107-degree, smog-laden air.
The taxi ride to the motel was with all four windows open because the drivers said, “I get better mileage when I don’t run the air conditioner” More culture shock.
The motel room apparently had been unoccupied for the entire time of the heat wave. I was exhausted from the 12-hour trip, the heat and thoughts of my sister’s funeral tomorrow.
I cranked up the air conditioner to cool down and it was 1:30 in the morning before I awoke with a chill, took a warm shower and fell back to sleep.
My sister was 88 years old, had lived a very good life while raising four great kids. They had been able to rent a tent for protection from the sun for the graveside ceremony and as I listened to each of her grown children, my nieces and nephews, read their personal eulogies, I could look over my shoulder across Burbank and see the massive pall of smoke from the Altadena fire.
The entire scene was a world away from yesterday when Laurie and I were lying at anchor on our boat in Genoa Bay.
I have been lucky my entire life – living in Los Angeles before the invention of freeways, and then moving to the northwest 25 years ago.
Let’s see, in 48 hours: boat trip, float plane ride, jet, taxicab, limousine to the funeral, lunch and back on a jet to escape from the cultural shock of too many people in paradise.