Even though the uphill walk was 17 minutes from where the Kenmore float plane dropped us, I believe I’m vacationing well. Seated on a faded red nylon chair in a parking lot spot at the Ora Inn, amidst a slight breeze and robin calls, I write. Here’s a photo of the smallest bedroom hotel room I’ve ever stayed in.
We don’t need much though. If you were around for Dave and my road trip to the coast of Georgia, you’d recall the bedroom next to the all-night coughing woman with the rotting and unsafe deck for $40 a night.
Spending $300 to fly on a float plane through a storm, over the top of a rainbow, with the pilot sitting close enough I could choke him out, was wild. You should really do it. Sure, I gripped Dave’s hand extra hard during the scary first bumps, but there’s something about seeing the pilot placing one finger on the wheel to steady it that melts away the fear.
Now, if he had stuck his barefoot out the window like I usually do when I’m comfortable cruising, I’d be a little more worried.
I’m a super fan of island life. The number of people in the grocery store with linen pants, flip flops, cropped and billowy pants, and longer hair and beards is everyone. And that their kids are likely named Chrysanthemum, Mercury, or Sciatica is high. I feel like one of them, but more tightly wound. A little more distant, a wannabe wallflower of island living. My floral flowy skirt and white Birkenstocks could have made me pass for one of them. But my not bringing totes into the grocery was a dead giveaway I’m not.
On a walk around Friday Harbor, live music drew Dave and me in. The number of hugs in the crowd made it clear we were amongst locals as a thirty-something, raspy-voiced singer sang a song called “Free Palestine” and another about the madness of living in an uncaring capitalistic society.
We’re back in our dorm-like hotel room. The front desk lady mentioned a later-than-usual shift for herself tonight due to ferry workers coming to stay at our hotel. Was it 2 or 3 am they get in?
A leaky shower? No problem! I just put a hand towel under the drip, and although I hear it like a gentle tap, it’s no longer as pronounced.
I’ll leave you with some glorious pictures from our flight. I hope you enjoy them and possibly feel inspired to get your butt out there too.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 