In the Northwest

"Hope this thing's watertight," Al said. "You think they've got enough space in the lifeboats?"

"Nah," I said. "You'd take up two yourself, easy."

"Guess you'll have to swim," he said.

"Sure," I said.

We were in the middle of the strait now, and the mountains behind us seemed to float above the horizon, the faint silhouettes hovering on the edge of my vision, and the port had disappeared into the mist. To the east lay the San Juan Islands and beyond that, the mainland, which slowly rose up toward the foothills and the Cascades beyond. I gazed out the window, watching the timeless shimmering of the waters as the ships passed.

Now, to the north, a miniscule sliver of gray was visible over the horizon. It slowly grew larger, and then there were the mountains of Vancouver Island. A freighter passed to our right, coming out of Seattle, probably bound for Tokyo or some other distant city. Silently, it went, out toward the Pacific, into the endless expanse of sea and sky.

"Wonder what it's like for the captain," I said, thoughtfully now.

"Who knows? Probably boring as hell."

I felt some pity for the captain, whoever he was. But the thought soon slipped away. Vancouver Island was clearly visible now as we rounded the point and entered the harbor, and then we could see the Empress Hotel and the boats docked at the harbor front.

"How'd the British get all the way over here in the first place?" Al asked.

"They used the GPS," I said.

"How was the technology back then?"

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"Better than it is now," I said.

We pulled up to at the dock. The sun had broken through the early-morning mist, and some of the coolness was gone. The harbor was crowded. A seaplane rumbled by, then took off behind us. Another circled above and began its descent. We got off the ferry, found our way through customs and went down toward the harbor. Below street level was a large plaza jutting out over the water. It was crowded with the carts of local artists and pedestrians milling about. We passed a number of these artists without noticing anything remarkable. Then a display of woodcarvings caught my eye. Behind the cart sat an old native-looking man, who seemed to be staring past us, scrutinizing something in the distance. The carvings themselves were meticulously crafted; the edges were precise, and it looked as though each detail had been painstakingly considered.

"Take a look at this," I said, but Al had already wandered away in the crowd. I turned toward the old man. Without turning his head, he shifted his eyes and regarded me in the same manner with which he had regarded the harbor a moment earlier. He did not speak.

"This is remarkable," I said, feeling that I had to say something. The man nodded only slightly. "Where did you learn it?"

At first, he said nothing, and I wondered if he had heard. Then, gazing again into the distance, he spoke: "My father." That was all.

"But the details are amazing," I said again, mostly to myself.

"What is the use, if what we craft is not what is?" I had not expected him to answer, and I did not know what to say to this.

"I guess there isn't," I said, finally.

"Life is art, nothing more," he said. He seemed not to be speaking to me, or anyone in particular, but to be uttering a general truth to anyone who would listen. Then he was silent. He was still gazing past me, past everything. I stood for a moment, looking at the woodcarvings, admiring them and thinking about many things. Then I moved on. I guessed the man was right. For the artist, his craft is what he feels, what he remembers, what he thinks, what he believes - what he lives. For this man, it was all in his woodcarvings - his past, his present and his future.

In the evening, we left Victoria. It was a cloudless night, and the air was crisp and untroubled. The waters sparkled in the fading light, and as the ferry sailed, it seemed that we were floating above the water's surface. We got back to Port Angeles just as the sun was slipping below the western horizon. The mountains stood, silent and still before us, mere echoes in the distance. The lights of the town were just coming on as we pulled into the harbor. It was a beautiful scene: the towering peaks, the dwindling light and the stars, just beginning to appear in the night sky. We stood on the deck, regarding it all, moved to silence.

"I wish I could paint it all," Al said, thoughtfully. "So I could remember it."

Night was falling over Port Angeles.