antigone

Antigone in the Quilleute River

Midnight wake up call from southeasterly wind singing through the rigging.  Alone in the boat, anchored in forty fathoms just above DI, seemed reasonable to quietly slip down wind toward the Quilleute in the dark, be at the river by first light.  Coffee pot over to the hot part of the stove,  plotted the course with the side of my hand on the smudged chart , slipped  a cassette in the player, cranked the tunes. 


Ambivalent about cropping small images from RC's artfully composed original shots, I made this one, and started an accompanying blog post several weeks ago and may as well finish the nostalgia trip for a while.
 
Seeing my boat rafted up next to Antigone in La Push reminds me of an incident that happened that same year.  Or the year before or after.

Midnight wake up call from southeasterly wind singing through the rigging.  Alone in the boat, I had been pulling fishing coho down the line a few miles from the Quilleute. Figuring there would be no sleep anyway, I slipped the coffee pot over to the hot part of the stove and rolled in the anchor gear.  Just enough speed to keep her stern pointing into the sea, coast down hill toward town.

By first light I circled in front of the fish company barge,  backed down and tossed a line around one of  Antigone's poles.  Garry had taken a load of ice the evening before, planning to charge off shore first thing.

Climbing down into the galley, I was greeted by  an incredulous look over the top of his glasses.  What are you doing here?  Boats are pulling a few fish; only a fool would run to town in the middle of the night.

Wind had not started to blow in along the beach yet, an obvious fact that put the lie to my entire story of being blow in off the grounds. Nevertheless, I was invited breakfast.

I'd heard of, but never had eaten, eggs Benedict. From a square foot of galley table top, water poured out of a jug, little black diesel oil fired stove, a beautiful breakfast seemed to materialize as if by magic.  Hollandaise sauce smooth and light, ham sizzling from the oven, eggs poached to perfection in a swirl of steam that filled the little room.  Hand beaten heavy cream.  Garry had to have it just so.


Never slip bare feet into worn Berkies, or pour my beer from the bottle into a special glass without thinking of the guy.

Photo Credit Richard Crow