Rob’s journal
when: April 30, 1989 where: Olympic Penninsula, Washington State, USA what: A Great Loss
© Rob Crimmins, Felton, Delaware, USA A man in his early thirties crossed the main road in the tiny fishing village on a bright Sunday in spring, entered a phone booth and made a long distance call. “Hi honey, it’s me.” “Hi.” The word was drawn out and the tone was of love and relief. She missed her husband and was glad to hear his voice. “I’m at the Makah Indian Reservation,” he said. “Where’s that? Why are you there?” Her relief turned to worry. They had parted two days before, having been together for his father’s funeral in Philadelphia. She returned to their home in Florida and he went to Seattle where he had been working for the past 3 months. “It’s at the tip of the Olympic Peninsula. I’ve been at Cape Flattery. I have a story.” “You have a story? Why are you so far from home?” She was happy to hear from him but he knew that she was worried. “I’m all right. Just listen to my story.” “Last night in bed I was thinking about Dad’s death, his life and my life.” His father, the man that he loved and respected above all others was gone. His work and failures cost him his happiness, and eventually his life. As he spoke of it the tears started to flow again. He fought them. He had cried in her arms and she told him it was all right and he felt that it was. Now he had to tell her what happened so he held back the tears. “I thought about work too, like I do every night. It made me angry that job worries interfered with thoughts of Dad, and you, but I couldn’t block them out. “This morning I started to go to work. I thought I would feel better if I got something done. I took a different route than I usually do and at one point I was pointed toward the Olympic Mountains. It’s a beautiful, clear day here and the mountains are grand. They’re green and snow topped. I was drawn to them and the ocean.” He told her that he had taken the ferry to Bainbridge Island and headed north. He didn’t check a map to see how far it was to the coast because it didn’t matter. No matter how far it was he would go. The fields were rich green and heavily spotted with brilliant yellow wildflowers and the snow covered mountains behind them added the background forming scenes of perfect beauty. The forest occasionally covered the road creating tunnels of branches and leaves where patches of sunlight shown on the white bark of the Alder, the green of the fir and spruce needles, and the deep soft green of the moss and ferns on the forest floor. He turned off the road at a stream and walked down to the water. At a bend where the water was five feet deep he knelt down. The water was very clear and the surface ripples disturbed the sunlight shining on the bottom. Minnows swam near his feet and one hovered, swimming against the weak current, maintaining station at arms length. The slow flow of the water and the undulations of the swimming fish were soothing, mildly hypnotic. Time slowed or became immaterial as he watched, thinking of nothing, only watching. The minnow swam closer then darted away as it sensed his movement. He continued to watch it as it swam back toward him on its journey upstream. Now he was careful not to move so that the fish would continue to soothe him. Its progress was slow but it seemed effortless. Concentrating on the fish he felt that he could see the water flow over
its body and feel the pressure on its fins. It reminded him of an easy run over a football field. The softness of the ground under foot and the feeling of air drawn into lungs must be like water over fins and through gills. The fish finally swam far enough that the details of its motions were no longer visible and the man looked up the stream and into the forest and up to the sky. He walked to the road, got back in the car and continued toward the ocean. Soon the Strait of Juan deFuca appeared on his right with Canada on the far shore. The road paralleled the Strait, sometimes low, near the water, and then as high as a hundred feet above. The water was very clear and green near the rocks and in the tidal pools, and blue-gray further out. Ships were in the channel five miles out and the distant Canadian hills were featureless and gray. He stopped again and climbed down the rocks to the waters edge and gazed into sea. It was a shear drop into a depth of eight feet. Purple, orange and red starfish clung to the rocks. Great patches of sea grass swayed in the waves and green anemones with their translucent tentacles probed the water for food. The grass was long and deep green that turned to light brown then yellow near the base of each blade. Some waves broke slightly but most rolled in, lifting and turning the grass, making it sway. The clusters of long fronds became waves within the wave, hundreds of individual strands each moving in perfect unison. The grass reminded him of the minnow. Both were in fluid, moving as the fluid allowed, living, thriving. The minnow moved against the current but it wasn’t fighting. It moved slowly, forced to accept gradual, sure progress. The grass offered no resistance to the Sea. On this gentle sunny day its existence must have been as good as it ever is, and the man thought that this plant, though torn and crushed in the fury of the winter storms is now lush and green, perhaps feeling the wonderful essence of life. Again, thoughts of the present interrupted his respite and he returned to his car. The fresh, sea air washed over him through the open windows as he drove. The road left the shore at times, twisting through the hills providing changes of scenery that made him remember days past. He thought of his father and his family as it was when he was a child. Rides like this were filled with laughter and the emotions that are lost with childhood. Eventually he reached the fishing village in the Reservation. The ocean was a few miles further. Children were riding bicycles and people were on the docks. Most of them were returning from fishing trips. The road turned toward the ocean and in a few minutes he saw the beach. He didn’t stop. A sign pointed the way to Cape Flattery so he went on to the landmark. The road narrowed then turned to gravel as it ascended the hill to the Cape. It went on for several miles getting rougher as it went. Finally it ended in a dirt parking lot. A hand painted sign indicated which trail went to the Cape and warned that it was treacherous. The Cape was about a mile from the parking lot. The trail wound through the forest, changing elevation both up and down, mostly down. It went near cliffs that dropped fifty feet to the water but there wasn’t much chance of falling. The warning on the sign wasn’t necessary. It was a beautiful trail. Old growth timber shaded the ferns and moss on the forest floor and in spots there were views of the ocean. The Cape ended on a small shelf. The man walked to the point and stood there, looking down at the rocks and the ocean. Half a mile from the point was a working lighthouse on a small island. There was a house for the keeper with a lawn. It could have been an illustration in a children’s storybook. He sat in the dirt, looking out to sea. The sun was bright and warm and the air moved slightly. He was very glad to be alone for now he had to think. The trip was over. He felt that there was a reason why he had come there. Now he looked for it by searching his thoughts. But it didn’t come. Why should it. This wasn’t the movies and it wasn’t a story and there is no plan or fate. It was my life. My father was dead. His life lost because he had made the wrong choices. Stress had taken him. Now I had to grieve, and remember. I didn’t have to learn or grow or see the light. I wanted to find an answer of some kind but none came. There was only pain without hope, no redeeming value, no cleansing. I stopped looking out to sea and looked down at the dirt, angry with reality. My thoughts returned to the World. I
had a long drive ahead of me and work the next day. The problems that kept me awake the night before still needed to be solved. This quest for truth didn’t change that. Then, while staring at the ground, I stopped thinking about myself and concentrated on the ants in the dirt. I remembered the minnow and the grass. While watching them I wasn’t thinking about myself. I was thinking about minnows and sea grass and waves. Actually I wasn’t “thinking” at all. My senses and my thoughts weren’t separate. If I could watch and feel rather than think I might discover why I was there. So I watched the ants as an answer formed from my feelings. They were carrying pieces of leaves that were huge in comparison to their bodies. Many of them couldn’t even be seen beneath their loads. When they dropped their cargo because it was awkward and unbalanced they scurried around it to find a new purchase, or they would drag it with them until it rolled and presented a new surface to crawl under. Then, as if by an incredibly strong furniture mover, the leaf would be raised and shifted while the ant deftly sought its center of gravity as he continued toward his destination. The leaf fell again and again but it was never still as it moved along the path. The fish and the grass and the ants were all successful. They were alive and they each had purpose. They each thrived by doing what they had to, what they were programmed to do, what they were built to do. Now, for me to thrive I had to do what a man has to do. I had to reason and consult my heart. “What have you reasoned?” My wife now knew that I would be all right. “That it is possible for me to be pleased with my life. If I find the path that feels right, a path that allows me to provide for you and our children and myself by doing work that fits my abilities. That’s all I need. If the work is valuable I may realize success and peace. If not, I’ll settle for peace.” “Sounds pretty simple,” she said.