Hello Everyone,
Even though it's only February, it seems like worst of winter is behind us. Kara is ecstatic.
We're told that a winter in southeast Alaska is often longer and darker than many areas further north because of the perpetual cloud cover. The occasional glimpses of the dim, watery sun held no heat and Kara could stare into it, unflinching, for hours. Orca's cabin was murky for three months, daylight's presence only betrayed by a greyness in the southern sky and the blazing cabin lights that pierced noon's gloom. Periodic snowfall covered the hatches, exacerbating the situation. For a while, Kara was acting strangely, shoveling snow off the deck hatches during a blizzard and mumbling about digging for the sun. Our Sitkan friends said she was SAD.
The learning curve has been steep. We scrambled to get Orca hooked up to city electricity in October, when the last electron trickled out of our solar panels. In November, a cold snap solidified the dock plumbing, and we hadn't filled Orca's water tanks. By December, Kara was experimenting with her contact lenses, which had frozen solid in solution, to determine if they were still serviceable after careful thawing—they were. In January, Kara learned to wear a hat between the shower and Orca when her wet hair froze into a helmet of disarrayed spikes during the commute; the fishermen were greatly amused. We made extensive modifications to our chimney and fireplace, which has been burning non-stop for four months. Though the distinction between diesel #1 and #2 still eludes me, #1 seems to flow better when the temperature plunges. The battle against moisture and condensation is uphill and futile, though the whisper of ice along the hull no longer keeps us awake on cold nights.
The Sitkans seem to take all this in
stride; they just don't know any better. Surfing and—stranger
yet—snorkeling are inexplicably popular wintertime activities
involving slabs of neoprene and the requisite waterproof flashlights.
A huge turnout for outdoor ultimate frisbee in torrential 33-degree
sleet and 30-knot winds during the afternoon night is not unexpected,
and a great way to meet the locals.
We stumbled into an acquaintance with
David, a ballerina and the self-designated ice-tester at the town
lake. He skates wearing a life jacket and falls through often, but doesn't seem to mind. His 24-year-old brother is the local
political celebrity, the house representative for SE Alaska, an
ultra-marathoner, and mountaineer who climbed a 22,000 foot high
mountain to measure it's precise elevation trigonometrically for a
school project. Together they maintain a tradition of midnight winter-solstice naked harbor swims.
Little Abby was once trapped in her
car seat, strapped into the family SUV on a camping trip as a
rampaging brown bear tore off the tailgate and climbed inside. Her
parents watched powerlessly from afar as it ate through much of the
food but left Abby unharmed. Afterwards, her mom, though shaken,
opted to continue the vacation on reduced rations.
Dave was recently hospitalized when a
bird flew into his window. The bald eagle had a wingspan of seven
feet and the impact turned the window into high velocity glass spears that
stuck, quivering, into his flesh.
Taylor is a frisky 23-year old blonde
who runs the local aquarium. She says sea otter makes excellent
soup, whale meat is best stir-fried and, when pressed, reluctantly
admits to fighting off a twelve hundred pound brown bear using a
chainsaw ("I'm just glad my old Stihl started on the first pull!").
Away at college for the first time, she was forcibly removed from
her Seattle dorm by an angry mob of vegan roommates after she
mistakenly grilled a slab of self-slayed elk in the communal
cookware. She still doesn't understand what she did wrong.
About three weeks ago, the winter
precipitation gave out with a final gasp—eight inches of rain in
eight hours. Ever since, the sky has been blue and the sun seems to
pack more punch. Though the temperature hasn't sallied above
freezing in two weeks, everybody is outside in shorts, skin
translucently white, squinting, sun-dazzled, and smiling. They say
we're through the worst, and a good thing too.
This winter's project has been to
write a book about Orca's voyage. Given the awful weather and
our quest for any excuse not to venture outside, progress was almost
inevitable. The rough draft includes some Orca Update text but is
mostly new material with an emphasis on the personal—and often
humorous—side of our misadventures. Does anyone know a publisher
who might be interested in having a look?
Thanks again,
John & Kara
S/V Orca
Sitka, Alaska
