| |
A Locals' Guide to Bellingham's Treasures
I like to pretend I’m a gruff seafarer squinting at the sea, reading the currents in the flushed face of tidal waters. Under my woolen cap I watch for wandering clouds carrying concealed winds that might wake up the white caps all around. Red skies cry out their warning when caught in the morning, but sigh in delight as they leave me at night. Yes, all I need is a schooner, or a whaler, or even a tug boat to break through the mist after the night rain has swollen the bay to a torpid calm.
These are the images of Bellingham’s beginning, when taught-armed net haulers fished for their fortunes from the seas of San Juan, upwards along Canada, and into the Alaskan fishing season. Still these waters are harvested, though having to travel farther from their homesteads, most fishermen are coming back with less catch and more rust. The early strength of Bellingham as a port town, a workers’ station south of the iceberg stretches into Alaska, can still be seen in the bustle of Squalicum Harbor.
A bristling meadow of masts sways safely in Washington’s second largest marina, where luxury yacht, live-aboard, and long-haul trawler all slip in to batten down their hatches. I like to walk the waterfront watching bearded men patiently mend miles of netting. A couple from a sailboat home wake to run their dog through Zuanich park before casting off for a weekend trip through the San Juan Islands. Sand paper sounds off the daily chores of boat life in Bellingham. At Squalicum Harbor you are allowed to walk the piers among half-million dollar yachts or watch wooden wrecks restored slowly under puddled tarps. Bellingham’s soul can be felt in thick bay winds that push spinnakers like the kites mingling over the park.
An entirely different culture interacts around the pilings and coiled rope of a marina. Boat people are connected in way that suburban neighbors could only imagine if their houses occasionally broke loose in a storm and drifted down the street. There is camaraderie among those who lash their dreams to steel cleats. If you own a boat you understand this gangplank compassion. But if you’re landlocked like me, only able to sail on two feet, then take a quiet morning stroll, warming your hands with a latte, and envision life aboard those steel-hulled fish tractors that quietly collect barnacles when asleep at bay.
|
|
