Once in a great while, Alaska is not the place I want to be. On a morning such as this, when the boat is again disheveled like a frat house on Sunday morning, I am easily defeated. I long for a Sunday in a big city. I want to retreat in the warm, familiar embrace of a neighborhood coffee shop where the barista knows that I want a triple cafe breve made with whole cream, not half and half, steamed so hot that I could poach eggs, all without having to be told. I want an almond AND a plain croissant with my steamed eggs, steamed eggs with scallions and sharp cheddar cheese. I want a copy of the Sunday New York Times to linger through. When I have grown a bit restless from the caffeine and finished my eggs and croissants, I want to get up and wander through a bookstore and find a new, good book, nay a great book; it has been so long since I have read a great book. Something to sink my whole psyche into, a book that beckons a reread, a candidate for the permanent shelf; there are so few on that shelf. Then it’s off to the open market to acquire the ingredients for my latest culinary attempt, perhaps something from Keller or something from Cooks! The fantasy goes on.
In reality, the weather outside is drizzly and cold. There is only one place to sit on the boat, all other surfaces covered with piles of food and clothes, charts and bits of equipment all brought aboard and needing homes, as the waterline sinks ever deeper below the surface.
Ok, so that’s an exaggeration, the waterline is not sinking below the surface.
I am not complaining. By this afternoon, after a hike through Lush Alaska, a few things put away and more items crossed off the to do list and I won’t be missing the big city. Besides, if I was in the big city, I would wish that I was someplace quiet, someplace wild. Some place far away. Some place like Alaska.
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