Losing a day or two on Kodiak Island

Posted by adn_jomalley

Posted: September 22, 2009 - 7:56 pm

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Calm before the fog: Morgan and Wetherleigh Griffin on top of Pillar Mountain in Kodiak on Saturday before the fog rolled in. (ADN.com / Julia O'Malley)When I checked in for my flight, Kodiak's airport was crowded with salty ball caps and duffle bags, rubber boots, gun cases, high-school hoodies and fishing pole tubes wrapped in plastic.

I had been in town for a day, a guest in a university class taught by my friend Jared. After class, he piled his family in the car and we drove out Pasagshak Road, through the moss-draped spruce, past the horse pastures and the nubby grazing buffalo, to a black sand beach. We climbed along the rocks, his daughters running out ahead. The wind had been warm. The scene was tropical, almost dreamlike. Then a surprise wave flooded the beach and swamped all of our boots.

At the airport, I was still high from the drive. A wad of wet socks weighed the pocket of my raincoat. I felt grains of sand in my clogs. Then the light coming through the windows changed. Fog. Out of nowhere. A harried woman at the Era Aviation counter got on the intercom: The plane we were waiting for couldn't land. It "might" try again in an hour. I texted Jared.

"Welcome to Kodiak," he texted back.

A minute later, my phone went dark with a dead battery. I struck up a conversation some Italian tourists. They were doctors from Rome. They said they had been camping for eight days on a remote river, drinking espresso, waiting for a silver salmon run that never came.

I went to the pay phone to call Jared, but the change slot was jammed with quarters. I looked in the blue phone book folder. Empty.

"You want the number for the Best Western?" asked the woman behind the tiny rental car desk. She rattled it off without looking. "You're not getting out of here."

The intercom voice crackled to life. The flight was canceled. I dialed Jared from a borrowed cell phone, but he didn't pick up. There was nothing to do but take the shuttle to the Best Western with the Italians. I climbed in next to a stubble-faced fisherman trying to get to San Francisco. I told him I was scheduled on a morning flight to Anchorage.

"Good luck," he said. "Storm's coming. Supposed to be 50-mile-an-hour winds."

On the drive back, the fog lifted. What had seemed quaint and darling earlier looked dark and lonesome in the waning light. The hotel lobby smelled of cigarettes and deep fry. A single-occupancy room was $169, plus tax. I dug out my credit card.

The Italians asked me to a bar, about the only place open by then. I drank beer and listened to them complain about how the food here was either covered in extra cheese or accompanied by fries. Americans were so unhealthy, they said. On the way back, one of them lit a cigarette. A bitter gust blew his smoke in my face.

"Don't those cause cancer?" I asked. "Aren't you a doctor?"

"These? No! I only smoke six a day. You know what causes cancer?" He tapped his two cigarette fingers on his temple. "Americans with their bad moods."

I fell asleep to an '80s movie on a warped TV screen, my dead cell phone in my hand.

In the morning, Jared met me in the lobby with Morgan, who is 9, and Wetherleigh, who is 7, in matching pink rain coats. Wind bent the trees. Jared told me that when he interviewed for his job there a few years ago, he was weathered in for days and almost missed Christmas. I was beginning to understand what I was dealing with. No one was sure when the weather would let up.

Jared drove me to his neighborhood. It was full of cannery workers, mostly from the Philippines. Worn, bright-colored rows of two-bedroom ranches edged the streets, cars parked in the yards. His front window had a line of smudges from the noses of neighborhood kids looking in.

Rain pelted the roof. I checked my flight again. Still delayed. They had to go to Safeway and I decided to come along. Kodiak has a grocery store, a bulk food store and a Walmart. Jared's wife Michelle told me the kids all have the same backpacks on the first day of school because there's only one place to get them.

They pushed the cart up and down the aisles, waving at people they knew. I thought of my own shopping list, and my laundry which wasn't getting done. I watched the people coming in from the parking lot, raincoat hoods blown askew. The fisherman from the bus was in line at the coffee counter.

We went for pizza at Big Al's in the back of the bulk foods store. If my flight was canceled, it would be another night.

"Why don't you stay forever?" asked Morgan, grabbing my hand. "You can sleep in our room."

"We can play Wii," suggested Wetherleigh.

I chewed my pizza and stared into the rows of industrial-sized mushroom cans. I felt dropped out of time, marooned in the rain.

Jared drove me through town. I saw the hospital and the new pool and the old Baptist church and a coffee shop. We scanned through the half-dozen radio stations that came in. Then the wind died down a little. We headed to the airport. There was a plane on the runway.

Jared wished me luck. The Italians showed up, greasy and unshaven, lugging foreign-looking backpacks. We exchanged "ciaos." I followed them across the wet tarmac onto the plane. We settled in. The props started to whir. A lady a couple aisles away crossed herself. Lift off. My stomach flipped as we bounced in the wind. Kodiak disappeared, swallowed by storm clouds.

Somewhere over Point MacKenzie, my phone buzzed. I'd forgotten to turn it off. It was a text from Jared, thanking me for coming. I wrote back, thanking him for having me. And then we screeched onto the runway. Home.

A while later, my phone buzzed again. It was from Jared.

"The sun is out," was all it said.

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