Submerged

ESSAY

It’s 9:43 on Sunday morning – my last morning at the dock and my last morning in the county. The wind is coming from the north at fifteen to twenty five knots. The sun is shining over the harbor, but the wind chills a person to the bone. While inside the protective walls of the docks it’s relatively calm, out at sea the waves are arcing and falling wildly. White caps are smeared across the charcoal waters beyond the break wall. The ‘No Wake’ buoy, which looks like a tube of Chapstick from here, bobs in the rollers.

Inside the dock house, it smells of stale coffee and wet carpeting. Hannah, my coworker, sits at the front desk reading. She rests her cheek on her balled fist in contemplation. Every now and then I can hear the wind whistling through the flimsy screen door. Gerry and Jeff and Randy came in for coffee this morning; they spoke in their deep, slow voices of Jeff’s upcoming lake crossing to Charlevoix. They sat stiffly in the wicker furniture, the flower patterned cushions something you would find on your grandmother’s couch, until 8:30. They had nursed their coffee until it was cold, and then they rose slowly, uncurling, to shuffle back to their Buicks in the parking lot.

From the bay window in the office I can see the moored sailboats rocking bow to stern in a repeated pattern. The varied greens of the park across the harbor sway and bend. Thin, dirty clouds are interspersed throughout the Carolina blue sky. The flag over the Alibi Dock is waving wildly. I can see Mary fastening lines on the Mary D; her husband Frank is too old to handle that kind of physical activity. Farther down, the Falcon, a fifty foot sailboat, is struggling against its bindings, lurching against the side of the dock.

The radio buzzes with the crackled transmission of a far off boater hailing the marina. “Fish Creek Town Dock, Fish Creek Town Dock…This is Orca on channel nine.”

I stand from the antiquated wooden chair I have been balancing on. I reach for the handheld microphone and ask the man to switch to channel twelve. It is a surprise to hear from anyone on a day such as this; very few sailors would have dared to brave the rolling seas. The boater says that he’s looking for overnight dockage. After I check our reservation spreadsheet on the computer, I take down his information on a scrap of paper.

Exiting the small whitewashed building, I tug my fleece sweatshirt tighter around me. The wind is brisk and easily cuts through my clothing. The early morning haze has dissipated and I’m feeling more alert, but the sun still seems too bright for my weary eyes. The halyards of the sailboats swing into masts in the stiff breeze. It makes a noise like muted bells. Two young boys race each other down the dock, screeching with glee. I can now see the Orca on the horizon approaching the harbor. The red of its hull winks at me as the boat lifts above the water and then the next oncoming wave devours it, sinking it into the trough.

I wait for the boat to draw nearer to the dock. As I stand there, unassumingly, the sphere of my existence in that moment overwhelms me. Its heady grasp on me is shocking. I have the ability to feel it all, to feel every input into my senses. I see the beauty of the place, the water, and the sunshine. I hear the waves pitching against the dock, feel its awesome power vibrating through my sneakers and running like electricity out through my fingertips. I smell the freshness, the coming change in weather, fall, in the wind. I can taste the rotting seaweed as the scent invades my mouth. Oh- I want it all. I want it to never end. And I recognize that this is Door County, right here, so simply summed up in a moment. The spirit swells in my chest.

I shake off the feeling though. I quash it heavily. I continue through my shift until one when Brian comes in for the second half of the day. Even as I leave the dock, though, the staggering awareness from earlier follows me. It follows me steadily up the peninsula. I drive with the windows rolled down as I hit fifty five miles per hour on the highway. I pass the Skyway Drive-In and remember seeing the summer’s blockbuster adventure movie there last week. Cruising through Ephraim at a devastatingly slow fifteen, I eye Wilson’s and gauge how long it would take to get an ice cream cone at the counter. Too long I decide. I continue my journey up through Sister Bay, eventually dodging traffic and pedestrians to arrive at the beach downtown, the one a few blocks down from The Bowl and Husby’s.

Up here, the wind is still strong; it pushes the jade-colored waves high against the dock, where a few courageous souls plan to plunge into the fury below. The surf is sloppy in the enclosed space; the waves do not peak in orderly crests. Instead they collide into one another, throwing their energy in confused directions. The movement, the chaos draws me down to the shore. I step onto the concrete structure jutting out into the madness of frothy water. I gravitate towards the end, like I’m being drawn to the turmoil. The wind whips around me and yanks on my clothing. I take a deep breath to settle myself; I inch closer to the edge. Looking down into the rush of movement, I am frightened by what I see; there is anarchy among the waves. The foreign depths are daunting, just as tomorrow is and all of the changes that will come with moving away.

Any other Sunday, this would have been an ordinary day in my life. But it’s my last day in the only place I’ve ever known before I set sail for my first taste of real adulthood. Every second I have been scrambling to memorize what the dock house smells like (seaweed? Rotting wood?), what the view from the bay window looks like (can I see the Weborg Point wharf from there?), the regularity of a normal day. I have been thrashing against the passing of the hours, panicked by the speed with which it has vanished.

With my khaki shorts and white polo shirt and navy sweatshirt still on, I step off the pier. My brain does not have time to register that I am falling before I am buried beneath the surface. The cold of the water pierces the numb shell that has been encasing me. I open my eyes to the nebulous underworld. Enjoying the feeling of suspension and weightlessness among the waves, I waver. I do not yet float to the top. I welcome the cool water as it lifts and moves me. It is calming, these waters that I have known since my childhood. I realize that I am unafraid of the future; I simply have to dive right in.

I know that after eighteen years it is now my time to see the world; I will experiment and live in new places and make new friends and try new foods (maybe). But I also know that my home, the place where I rest my wings, will always be Door County, with its disarming, nostalgic charm, its radiant allure, and its friendliness and warmth. As I stand on the brink of leaving the only place I’ve known, I realize that more than ever I want to be immersed in my home, submerged in its uniqueness. I will appreciate my new experiences, but forever I will cherish the fact that I am lucky enough to call this one-of-a-kind place mine.