Hits & Misses, Part 2: Into the Wild

My trip back home to Portland from L.A. was a little rocky. Shortly after we ascended, our plane hit a patch of turbulence and then sank a little. A woman across the aisle from me kept screaming, ‘Is this normal?!” I tried to tell her that everything would be OK but I don’t think she heard me over the plane’s noise. Another passenger in the seat in front of mine leaned over and held her hand and offered reassuring words until we got through the rough patch, and I held my bestie Jenny’s hand.

After that it was smooth sailing and we were set to arrive home on time. Jenny and I relaxed and had a couple drinks, played Madlibs and then read books until the plane landed safely.

A few days later, I attempted to leave Portland again, and due to the snowstorm, I experienced more delays. First, it took me two hours just to get from my apartment to Union Station, which is only five and a half miles from where I live. I was supposed to take a bus downtown and then catch another bus or light rail train to the station, but once I got downtown, all of the buses and Max trains kept getting canceled.

Finally I called an Uber and made it to the station on time, but my train was delayed three and a half hours. It was so cold, even inside the station. Along with everyone else, I kept my hat, gloves and coat on while I sat in the corner and charged my phone. Finally, the train arrived.

After the train departed, it stalled in North Portland for a while for no discernible reason. I felt bad for my Facebook friend, Mark Jones (names of people and boats in this story were changed to protect people’s identities), who had agreed to pick me up from the train station in Olympia and take me to his houseboat: I kept having to text him and let him know that I’d be there later and later.

I finally arrived a full seven hours after I’d left my home. I felt good about staying in Mark’s boat and catching a ride with him because we had known each other in Portland, before he moved to Oly — or so I thought. He had owned a music venue that I had performed at and he was close friends with another friend of mine who played music with me at the time. My friend and I used to see Mark around all the time at his bar.

When he met me at the station, I didn’t recognize him, but I figured it was just because so much time had passed. It seemed reasonable that his hair would be gray now instead of dark brown. After we got in his car, he said it was nice to finally meet me.

“Yes, it’s nice to see you again!” I replied.

“Oh, have we met?” he asked.

“Yeah, didn’t you used to own the Watering Hole?”

“No,” he responded.

“Oh, you have the same name! I just assumed you were him since we were Facebook friends!” I exclaimed, and blushed over my foolish mistake. I could have investigated his page a little further, and besides foolishness, I’ll blame my busy schedule.

Mark explained that he does photography and graphic design, and knows a lot of musicians because he makes fliers and ads for them. He suggested that that’s probably why we are friends on Facebook, because of our mutual musical acquaintances. I figured he was probably right, though it could be that we know the same models or other photographers, too, because of my past work as a freelance model.

Great, so now I’ve gotten in the car with a stranger, I thought.

His electric car was not charged, he explained, and he expressed that he hoped we would make it up the hill to the marina. Oh boy. Fortunately, the car did manage to deliver us safely there. I was so excited, seeing all of the boats at the marina, and made note of where the restaurant and communal bathrooms were.

There was an emergency rescue truck pulled up to the doc and I tried not to let it quell my excitement. Mark said that it probably meant that someone’s boat sank, so I tried not to fret too much about that, assuming he wouldn’t let me onto his boat if it had similar issues.

As Mark walked me down the icy dock to his boat, I saw many stately houseboats with appropriately grand names like Gratitude and Summer Wind. Oh please, let it be one of those! I begged the gods and goddesses. But, deep down, I knew that my luck wasn’t that good.

We passed a dilapidated little boat called the Wet Pup. Please, at least, just don’t let it be that one, I asked the Universe. When we finally reached Mark’s houseboat, it made the Wet Pup look like a nautical palace. That’s on me, though, I thought: Mark had warned me that his floating home was rustic,

The roof was full of holes so Mark suggested that I just use the space heater in the sleeping quarters and not light the wood stove. He explained that the tarp could catch fire. He put foam in a few of the gaps and a towel over the front door to try to help fix the insulation problem. He turned on another space heater in the bathroom, and showed me how to use the toilet that had a lever and pedal on it, and I had to turn off the heater in the restroom after he left because the burnt hair smell was concerning me. Plus neither of the heaters were doing much heating.

The wind was intense that night and the boat swayed to and fro. It took some getting used to, as I’ve only lived on land before, land that has mostly not moved, save a small earthquake or two. Still, I assured Mark that I’d be fine for the next couple nights, and said goodbye, thanking him for the squat.

I mitigated my anxiety by drinking half a bottle of red wine and taking an Ambien. I fought the cold by wrapping my heating pad around my shoulders as if it were an electric blanket. I turned on one of my favorite sitcoms, and fell asleep watching it on my phone. I had to sleep on the couch because I couldn’t find an outlet for my heating pad near the bed.

I settled in and the waves rocked me to sleep, just as I’d always hoped they would when I had dreamed of owning my own houseboat one day.

I woke up early the next morning, very cold but eager to start recording my audio book. The thermostat monitoring the temperature inside the boat read 42 degrees. I popped open a can of iced coffee that I’d brought with me, hoping the boat would warm up to 44 degrees again as it had been the previous night. I had a packet of hotel coffee with me and the iced coffee wasn’t enough to fully rouse me, so I microwaved a cup of water and then steeped the coffee pod in it as one would do with tea. It sort of worked. I decided against using the propane stove as Mark had made some comment about someone’s boat blowing up recently due to an exploding propane tank,

After my second cup of coffee, my throat felt sufficiently warmed enough to begin my work. I read two chapters of my novel, plus the opening credits and a dedication track. Curious to hear how it sounded so far, I powered it down, popped out the SD card and then pushed it into my laptop. There was a terrible buzzing noise that pervaded most of it, as well as the occasional clicking sound. I tried changing the batteries, blowing on the microphone, but nothing seemed to help. After a couple more test runs, I realized it was futile. Perhaps the audio recorder has frozen, I wondered. (I found out later that, as bizarre as that sounds, this was sort of the case. The Tascam apparently doesn’t function well if the temp is too low or too high.)

Looking up the hours for the restaurant down on the marina and checking the time on my phone made me sigh. Great, I just have to wait three hours for it open. Three hours with nothing to work on. I wrote in my journal, read my tarot, and ate some oatmeal. Then I texted some friends. I couldn’t find a single person who would have felt comfortable staying where I was. But I was stubborn and determined to tough it out. But I decided to slightly modify my trip home so that I’d be coming back in the morning the next day, instead of waiting until the afternoon. Finally, it was time to go to brunch.

Walking in, I noticed that the restaurant was still pretty empty, save one couple near the entrance. It was 11 AM. I was grateful that I’d made it in before the lunch rush. The hostess asked me if a booth was OK, then led me to the corner booth which had a spectacular view of all of the houseboats on the frozen bay. It was nicer to look at than to be on. “This is my favorite seat,” the hostess told me with a cute smile before she sauntered away. The sun shining through the window and the heater that was on inside the restaurant both thawed me out.

When the waitress came, she asked me if I wanted water, coffee, or something else. I decided on water, coffee and a Bloody Mary. Might as well fill up when I can! Then I ordered a black bean burger and fries for lunch, as it was the only vegan option. Then I rushed to the bathroom. The toilet on the boat didn’t work very well so I had to utilize the restaurant’s facilities while I could.

I took my time finishing my lunch, drinking a few cups of coffee, before heading back to the boat. I was already nervous that I’d slip on the icy dock and fall into the frozen water, and then I noticed a few crows that kept swooping down and flying low. One of them seemed to follow me. I felt the air from his wings near my hair. I loathe and fear and am fascinated by crows. Something I’ve learned about them: they are sometimes an omen, warning that danger is near.

When I got back to the boat, I climbed on and pulled open the door, but couldn’t get it shut again. After pulling and pushing on it for several minutes, it finally budged. I managed to pull it shut and latch it closed … but then I couldn’t help but think about how frightening it would be if the door wouldn’t cooperate again when I was trying to get back out. And what if I were in a hurry? What if the boat began to sink into the frozen water and I couldn’t get the door open to extricate myself?

I knew Amtrak would let me change my ticket again. This time they asked for $11, which I gladly forked over. I got my ticket changed from Monday morning to Sunday night. I checked the time on my phone again. It was mid-day Sunday. I packed my stuff, took out the trash, and threw my suitcase off of the boat. Then i hopped onto the dock, minding the gap between it and the boat, careful to maintain my balance with my backpack on. I exhaled the cold air and thanked the goddesses that I was done with my Into the Wild moment.

Once i got to the parking lot of the marina, I met my Uber driver and we headed out to Centennial Station. I was so relieved to leave the bay in the warm car. I arrived at the station a few hours early, so I checked to see if I could change my ticket one more time, to catch an earlier train back to Portland.

But as i was in the process of re-booking, all of the trains home that night got canceled due to unspecified issues caused by the weather. Amtrak trains are usually still able to operate in snow so I wasn’t sure what the problem was, until a friend suggested that maybe there were fallen trees blocking the tracks.

I booked a motel a few miles from the station, and called a Lyft. I wasn’t even upset that it was costing me way more money than I’d anticipated to be in Olympia for a project that I couldn’t work on anymore: I was only feeling excited to be in a warm, heated hotel room with a bathtub. I grabbed some pretzels from the vending machine, poured the last of the wine I’d brought into a plastic cup, and then soaked forever, with heater blasting my room with hot air.

The next morning, I checked on my train’s status; so far it was only delayed. I called the front desk and asked for a late check out, so that I could stay warm longer. Then I took the free city bus to downtown Oly, had lunch at McMenamins’ Spar Cafe, and then walked around Fourth Avenue a little. I had eaten at Spar Cafe once with my buddy Jenny on the way home from a tour so I was glad to know of a place where I could get some quality food and bevvies.

My train home got canceled again so I booked a Greyhound bus home. Now I’m sitting in the Olympia Greyhound station, and the bus just pulled up, the sweet chariot that will deliver me home! I’ve never been so happy to see a Greyhound bus in all of my life.