Roche Harbor

The drive south was needed quiet & chai. Drowsy-eyed on the Anacortes ferry with busted duffle, a thick read. The layers between water, landscape, sky were polarized like a depressed layer cake. Walking off the ferry, the skies turned, and a bright blue made everything fall into shadow. A drive through windy to the other side of the island, to Roche Harbor; between wind where there were homes with fields for lawns, birds in bursts across ponds. 

 

Roche itself was brick enclosed, a white compound of Hotel Haro's log bunkhouse, general store, wharf, our lady of good voyage chapel, and forked docks with sailboats in bob. The room with walls host to voices like knocks on the door, waiting to be let in. The white bed fell into a fireplace. A terrace with view of the curve of boats at shore.

 

Back the wind to town to SJCT's fundraiser; Bill Shaw's gourmet gruel of the most sensory finger foods, wine with body and an incredible auctioneer, Jay Fiske, made more incredible by the ever-flow. Patsy Cline music, slipping down the stairs, into a dry black night into a restaurant for bloody mary pizza & a not so intelligent round of poor tequila from towney todd because, because. Then, the Roche, a rush, a deer running, tumbling, down the wet of the hill, laughing till morning where the coffee brews & football plays & open the terrace door because.