Horse Island

"Come out to Horse Island for lunch on Saturday," Rachel texts on Wednesday. "We'll celebrate Ryan's and your birthday together."

  I am excited, and immediately accept, without even consulting Himself. 

"We are thrilled to be invited and delighted to come," I text right back. "What can we bring?"

"Just bring what you want to drink. That's the hardest thing for us to gauge."

   All righty then. I know it's a mudslide for me, and Himself can surprise us with his selection. 

  "I baked cookies," I toss into the convo. “I'll bring some."

  "That will be fine," says Rachel.

  When Himself gets home, I tell him about our good fortune. He nods, says nothing, and stares into the forest outside our sliding glass doors for a while.

"You know the weather's going to suck," he says.

  "Oh yeah... I didn't think about that."

  "Well, we'll see what kind of a boat they have—how cold, windy and rainy it will be, and how much you’ll like that."

  "Thanks for your concern," I say. He can’t harsh my buzz. "If it's really ugly on the high seas, I'll just roll into a little ball and go someplace else in my mind. It’s only thirty minutes, after all.”

  "We'll see,” he says. His eyes say, “skeptical.”

***

  On Friday, Himself asks, "Do you get seasick?"

  I look upward, thumb through my internal Rolodex of life events. "Not that I remember."

  Himself raises his eyebrows. They communicate doubt.

“Davie Downer,” I mutter, under my breath.

However, I remember his warning about squalls, plus I look at my WeatherUnderground app. Cold and rain are predicted, so I line up my supplies, as though we were going on an Himalayan trek in December. 

Gloves? Check. 

Buff for my neck? Check. 

Fox fur collar, just in case the Buff is not enough? Check.

Fur wrist and ankle cuffs? Check. 

Long sleeved, double gauge 100% cotton top, under thick black hoodie and yellow Gordon’s fisherman jacket? Check.

Rachel says to be sure to wear waterproof boots for when we disembark from Donkey, their sure-footed blue and silver powerboat. 

Extratufs? Check. (You’re not an Alaskan, until you own a pair of Extratufs.)

For some reason, my ADD brain tells Himself that we need to meet Ryan at the Auke Bay dock at noon. I am awake with my sometimes insomnia for hours in the night, so Himself lets me sleep in. 

He runs some morning errands, sees a new group text from Rachel to us, responds, and ends with, “See you at noon!”

She writes, “11AM. Eeeek!”

When Himself gets home, I am enjoying a leisurely morning, la di da, di da…

“We’re meeting them at 11AM, you know…” he tells me, sounding a bit nettled.

“What???” 

“Yep. Rachel said. Did you see her texts?”

“No. I just got up a while ago. I haven’t looked at any texts.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I did. You better get going…”

Man, I’m on it! Thank goodness, I already did the important things—I loaded the cookies, a birthday candle, Ryan’s birthday gift, and my multiple layers of warm clothing into my bag. 

I think I’m done, when I notice Himself scooting around the kitchen, gathering beverages. Nu, duhhhh. The Germans have a saying, “The genius drinks, the fool eats.” Guess who I am? For me, it’s all about the cookies. 🙄

Not to be outdone, I grab the ingredients for my mudslide, toss them into a Yeti cup without measuring them, add cream, milk, an ice cube, and bam! I’m ready to go.

We slam out the door, charge into Blucie, and race to the car park at the dock. We make it a few ticks before 11AM—just barely, and the panic sets it—where are the parking kiosks? 

Though I download the app on my phone on the way, the app tells me, “No zones match the current search.” 

What? Sometimes, I hate apps. And my phone.

We find a kiosk. My nails are too long—I try three times to insert and retract my credit card—and fail. With an harrumph, Himself takes his card and buys the ticket himself. 

We stride down the pier and await Captain Ryan. 

The cap’n arrives and Himself asks, “Permission to come aboard,” which gets the wished-for laugh.

The Donkey is a fine little seafaring craft, complete with windows that open and shut, a front door and a back door. Totally warm, wind-proof and the seats are cushy. I feel a bit idiotic with my woolen- and fur-filled backpack. Thank goodness, it’s not transparent. I toss it in a corner.

The skipper has spent many hours on the ocean. Himself is a seasoned Coastie. Skipper gives us the safety drill, and off we go into the grey and foggy horizon. I could’t be more secure than with these two salts. 

It's blustery, which causes something Ryan calls “Juneau chop.” Several tourist-laden whale watching boats exit Auke Bay in front of us. Once past the Juneau chop, we hit smooth waters, until we cross the wakes from the whale boats. 

Whooooo-eeee! I love it. We bounce up and down, slapping the water, as though Donkey were doing belly flops into a swimming pool. Or as if I were cantering over jumps on a fast-moving steed. I giggle with joy.  

       Ryan apologizes and says, “Rachel hates it when it’s like this.”

            I guess I’m too dumb to feel threatened—and I don't like water, in general. I don’t even enjoy washing my hands. I do it plenty, but I don’t like it.

We pass Admiralty Island on the right; we pass Colt Island, covered in bald eagles, on the left. I feel positively jaunty.

        We see the Orca Point Lodge in the distance. I’d like to go there sometime.

Just past Colt, a baby and mama hump whale partially breach right in front of us.

Horse Island lies just ahead. We espy cabins perched well above the rocky shore. Rachel and the dogs rush forward to meet us. 

                                

Captain Ryan lands the craft like the boss that he is, bringing it as close to Rachel as possible. She wades into the water with a ladder, sets it on the underwater rocks and instructs Himself to disembark first, then help me.

The boat side is so tall that I can’t raise my right foot high enough to clear it. I’m too short, my Xtratuf boot is too stiff, my thigh too chunky. I use both hands to lift my leg out of the boat. Call me svelte. Call me Grace.

But I do make it over and slosh only a little bit of water into the top of both boots. 

Rachel asks if we want to walk up the steep rocky driveway to the cabin or ride the ATV. Himself elects to walk. I decide it will be fun to ride.

I mount the ATV behind Rachel, as if we were riding a horse together bareback. Rachel yells, “Hold on tight—very tight,” and away we go.

She takes off, up the hill like a demon from Hades, and I jerk back like I’m the recoil on a rifle. Blam!

Praise the Lord, I’ve grabbed the handles with my claws of death, and though I nearly pitch off the back  of the hell cab, I manage to hang on, shrieking with laughter all the way.

        Himself catches a photo—thinks I’m mugging for the camera. I’m not.

The cabin is fabulous. Not quite finished, it’s missing door and window frames, and stair railings to the loft. But, who needs those, when there’s a wood-burning stove in the corner of the living room that makes the whole place smile a cozy welcome?   

       

And guess what? Rachel might be missing balsamic glaze for the caprese 

salad she has planned as a side, but she has her priorities in order. 

She stands in one corner of the kitchen, concocting a divine mystery mixture that includes something exotic, like coconut syrup, into a piña colada machine.

Yes. You read that right. She and Ryan have imported a piña colada machine to their cabin. This magic device swirls and twirls, then churns out a rich, slushy ambrosia that we pour into glasses and mix with the Bacardi that stands right next to it, then slurp up our coladas through sexy black straws.

I very much enjoy roughing it, Rachel-style.

The men go outside to grill marinated steaks. We lay out the sides, the plates, cutlery, napkins (folded paper towels—we are camping, after all), and desserts.

Lunch is delicious. I could eat twice as much as I do—but I’m trying to fool everyone and appear lady-like and delicate.

We light the candle on a giant oatmeal cookie and sing the birthday song, we scarf down sugar cookies and lemon bundtcake. 

We play a competitive round of Port Royal. In what is very poor form, Ryan, our host and instructor, gives us clueless novices a wicked ass-whooping in record time. But do we cry? No, we do not. 

Instead, we take a relaxed hike toward the interior of the island. Thoughts of Lord of the Flies flit through my brain, but it’s not like that here.    

Also, there are no bears on this island, though Ryan and Rachel admit that brown bears sometimes swim over from Admiralty. Isn’t that special?

Lucky for us, no bears take a dip today. 

Sadly, it’s already time for Captain Ryan to bring us back to the mainland. Gotta beat the tides, ya know.   

And before those tides turn, he also has to make it back to Rachel, who stokes the home fires in their cozy cabin and eagerly awaits her captain's return.