January Chill (Copy)
We got up early this morning and packed our surfing gear in the pre-dawn cold of the Washington winter. We loaded boards and wetsuits into the car and piled on jackets and beanies to protect against the January chill.
Surfing involves a particularity of place, an intimate knowledge. Our search for surf usually takes us to the Olympic Penninsula. The Olympic Penninsula – a dream world of sorts, a wild place shrouded in mists. We drove out today in the early gray of morning, little differentiation between the waters above and the waters below. The blue-gray sky was saturated with mist. The tree branches were heavy with water, and it all dripped down to the Puget Sound or the Straight of Juan de Fuca, and the whole world was composed of various shades of blue and gray. There is something to be said for Pacific Northwest surfing, for embracing this water world in which we live and willingly becoming a part of it.
Farther out on the peninsula, the clouds began to part, and the sun lit the environment with brilliant color. The cedars and douglas-firs were not only green but also presented subtle gold hues as they caught particular rays of sunlight against a backdrop of blue-gray. The wild beauty of the place is undeniable.
It is a land of forests and spirits. We drove through the S’klallum land in Jamestown, past the many faces of the totem poles, faces of ravens, orcas, bears, and men, all carved into logs and painted in the local colors.
As we found our way into the rain shadow of Sequim, we saw blue skies and the white-capped peaks of the Olympic range in the distance. On one side of us, the mountains, on the other side, the sea.
When we finally arrived at our destination, we turned off the highway onto a deeply-rutted gravel road. We carefully navigated a maze of expansive puddles before we found a spot to park on the banks of the straight. Today the search paid off – clean sets of waves were rolling in, and there were only four or five people out in the water. A full rainbow arched high overhead, beginning just west of us on the Washington coast and ending far out in the straight, nearly to the smokey hills of Canada in the distance.
In the surf, we were joined by seals who periodically popped their heads above the surface to watch us. We are visitors in their home, creatures of the land partaking of the life of the sea. Truly, none of this belongs to us. We are stewards of this great land. We are guests here for a time, and that is a great gift.
