notes from the kelp

…click to listen:

…about the music

Trying to be truthful.

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One of my island pals recently learned that I’d never been crabbing. If the view out your NYC window is another NYC window directly across a dark sooty air shaft, or, if it’s a billowing wheat field somewhere in the Midwest, then you may have no idea what “crabbing” is. I certainly didn’t, prior to moving up to this island with the theme from Green Acres in my head, as I pondered Eva Gabor’s wardrobe choices for that all-important transition from Park Avenue to the farm. That about sums up my life.

Upon hearing of my deprived and clearly uneducated existence, my aforementioned island pal immediately invited me to come along on his sunset paddle to retrieve the crab pot he’d lowered to the sea floor earlier that day. As keen as my awareness was of the pile of work that had to get out the door, just as keen was my awareness of the now balmy but fleeting summer. That latter keenness won my internal debate, and instead of the work getting out the door, I did.

Notice the hi-tech driftwood boat ramp for superior launching.

Gleefully settling my 116 pounds into the very front triangle of the dented 1948 Grumman aluminum canoe, I was to be both the on-board photo journalist, and the ballast. My friend mostly paddles solo, and usually dumps a pile of stones where I now sat. Matter-of-factly, he declared that I was “prettier than a rock.” I was touched. We were off to a fine start.

The wind had picked up enough to offer small waves that bounced us along as we spotted the markers where his pot was sunk. In it dangled the bait of turkey legs; a Thanksgiving meal (or, last supper) for the Dungeness crabs that entered the one-way metal cage. Females are lucky; they get a free dinner and are returned to the sea. But males are fair game. As my friend hoisted the pot, many, many sets of legs (each crab has ten) waved in the air; it appeared that he’d thrown a rave party with a great buffet. But that wild bash turned out to be a sorority meeting: crab after crab he picked up was a female.
Except one.
Morty.

I called this one Houdini.

One lucky girl-crab, headed back home.

Meal time.

Morty was impressively large– at least 16 inches across. An elder statesman, at probably over six years old. He was wise. He was beautiful.
And he was about to be my dinner.

We returned to shore just as the full sun sank and the full moon rose above the trees, and loaded the truck back up with pots, paddles, seat pads and PFDs. Last to get in and buckle up for the bumpy ride back to my house was the guest of honor, sloshing in a plastic bucket filled with a mixture of seawater and hard cider. Yes, you read that right. My friend insisted that the alcohol would calm the crab down and, mercifully, make him a little drunk. It seemed to me that we’d need a few more shots of bourbon in there to do the trick. Peering down into the bucket, I asked in my best New York accent, “Hey, Morty– you want another round? How ’bout a slice to go wit dat beer? Maybe a pretzel or sumptin’?”

“Don’t converse with your dinner.”
My friend was cautioning me, even scolding me. He knew that I’d never cooked a live creature before.
I looked up at him with a very mixed emotion of delight for having caught a meal without a shopping cart, and remorse for my catch-of-the-day’s immediate future.
He added, “You would have made a lousy 4H kid.”
For the uninitiated reading this: those are the sweet farm children who lovingly raise Bertha the pig for years and then send her off to slaughter, presumably without shedding a single bacon-flavored tear.
My friend, growing increasingly impatient with me as I made cute faces at Morty, warned that talking to the crab was not going to make this easier. Nor would it result in particularly engaging conversation, for that matter.

Back at Shapiro Kitchen Stadium, we readied some lavash bread to create a pizza that would support our secret main ingredient. Well, at least it was a secret to Morty, who floated around patiently in the bucket as I grated fresh mozzarella and chopped organic basil. A large pot of water boiled. And finally, it was time.

I was right about needing more booze. Not just for Morty, but for me.

My friend reached into the bucket with woefully small tongs that were intended for tossing a small garden salad rather than the Loch Ness monster. Morty was not about to go gentle into that good pot. He flailed. My friend flailed. The whole thing soon became reminiscent of the lobster scene in Annie Hall, complete with me grabbing my camera. Then Morty, in defense of what little honor he had left, finally reached up with his big long claw and solidly nabbed my pal on the thumb, clamping down on it for quite some time until being released back into the bucket, along with the set of tongs he was now grasping like a hard-earned trophy.
Atta boy, Morty. You show ’em!

“I want to thank the Academy…”

With the crab now firmly in control of the tongs, we went for Plan B: two equally under-powered plastic serving spoons. Geez, this was becoming pathetic. Despite his valiant efforts, Morty, not nearly drunk enough for all these shenanigans, ended up in the pot. It was a quick demise, thankfully.

I promise, dear, gentle reader: it was instant.

I was about to start another conversation with the fella.

I almost didn’t post this since it’s a tad cruel. Yet, truthful.

As I Neosporin-ed and Bandaid-ed my friend’s digit, we both agreed that Morty’s attack was entirely justified, and that we would have tried to do far more damage had it been us being prodded with stupid kitchen utensils.

Dinner was, of course, delicious, and we thanked our crab for giving us this meal. But I couldn’t stave off a sadness and a lingering feeling that, given my numerous supermarket choices, his passing was avoidable.

After doing the dishes I walked outside with the shell and leavings of my crustacean acquaintance. I respectfully scattered Morty’s remains on a rock on the other side of my desk window and thanked him for feeding me, my friend, and whoever now may come along. When I awoke, shell pieces were strewn and it was evident that others shared the supper leftovers. In the morning as I sipped my coffee, a crow was eating crab’s legs. Morty’s legs.

“Now this is what I call a decent brunch!”

And that evening at sunset, after I put out the last bits of shell from the crab leftovers I enjoyed for lunch, a fox demonstrated his appreciation for the seafood platter.

Got more?

I even tossed out the last crab-infused edges of the pizza the following morning, thus expanding the culinary horizons of one very pleased seagull:

This all made me happy. I wanted to make sure every bit of ol’ Morty was put to good use.

I have not eaten meat or birds in over twenty years, not out of any overriding moral dissent, but due to my revulsion at factory farming. I take no issue with hunting what you need to feed your own family; that’s how it used to be and that’s the proper balance for the planet. Humans are omnivores; we have these sharp, powerful teeth for a reason and it’s not just because broccoli stems can be a little tough. We are designed to consume other animals.

I continue to eat seafood. So why is it that I wrestle so deeply with the concept of willingly ending another creature’s life? Why did I weep a little last night before falling asleep? Living in the spot I do, I observe animals killing and eating other animals virtually every day. Right in front of me, through my desk window, as I compose. An interesting juxtaposition, to be sure.

A sampling of my daily visual fare? Ducks and cormorants pop up to the ocean surface stuffing writhing fish into their gullets. Seagulls flit around with urchins and crabs dangling from their beaks. Bald eagles swoop down before my eyes and carry a young gull away in their sharp talons. I watch foxes trotting along with limp baby bunnies clutched in their jaws. Seals voraciously devour large Pacific Red octopus, ripping apart the beautiful tentacles. The resident orca whales consume vast numbers of Chinook salmon, and yes, the transient orcas eat sea lions (I’m happy to report that I have not witnessed this. Yet.). Indeed, they are known to the public as “killer whales.”

And all this time as you’ve read my bucolic blog posts over the years, you thought life here was just comprised of adorable critters and gorgeous sunsets.

Not one of these creatures shows any mercy, nor do they show a hint of remorse. Of course not. Why would they? This is how they, like us, are naturally designed.

What separates [some] humans from animals is a particular layer of empathy; for unknown reasons, we possess the DNA for squeamishness and regret. I’ve always referred to myself as a food hypocrite: I eat lots of fish and seafood that I purchase in a neatly cleaned and cooking-ready format, but have never been able to bring myself to hook and clean a fish, or dunk a lobster in boiling water.

So now I’ve experienced my first kill.
And I’m still squeamish, and regretful.
And I will still continue to eat fish and seafood.

Humans are a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
Which is then stuffed into a crab shell.
I am uncomfortably contradictory, and besieged with the oxymoron of being a “pescaterian”: a fish-eating vegetarian.

Thank you, Morty, for so, so much. You encouraged deep thought, in addition to making one helluva pizza.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Toward the light.

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In memory of the tragic losses ten years ago on this day.

And in memory of the equally tragic losses of freedom, civil liberties and ethical conduct by too many leaders of my country, ever since.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Sonata for the sea. And, the B-flat.

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I woke up this morning, opened my eyes, and it struck me:
The first thing I see every day from my pillow, is in constant motion.
Okay, after I put my glasses on.

These hypnotic, undulating kelp beds probably help to keep me in some sort of trance state, as I make the transition from sleep to a [barely, sometimes] functional level of consciousness. Or more accurately, as I attempt not to cross that cerebral threshold while I throw on old jeans, make my coffee, and ponder the creative work I’d like to accomplish in the coming hours. Work that relies upon inspiration which ebbs and floods just as the tide nudges these plants. And upon initiative that must always flood, regardless. Hey, deadlines wait for no deadbeat composers. I gaze out the kitchen window at the day’s possibilities, watching a Great Blue Heron balance awkwardly on its skinny legs as the current shifts the bull kelp on which he’s gingerly perched.
Life is unpredictable.

Everyone around here waits patiently for inspiration. Or, the next meal.

Yesterday was bright bright bright sunshine all day long. And very hot. And windless. The sun blazed into this largely-glass house, making it a challenge for me to see my computer monitors. I draped a reflective cloth over one of my Macs, and donned a ball cap to avoid sunburn at my desk. Seriously. Over a hundred small sport fishing boats and ten more commercial trawlers packed the view from my deck. The diesel-scented rumble of engines filled the air, turning this normally isolated and silent batch of sea into a makeshift marina. Rods, downriggers, gill nets and purse seines were all after one common goal: salmon, which are running in large numbers right now. My daily amusement has been seeing the occasional fish jump right out of the water. And, back in again. Until his next leap lands him on someone’s grill.

And the whales? They wisely avoided the traffic congestion, and hung out elsewhere for the time being.

As all the boats follow the fish, it’s like watching a very slow-motion regatta.

I’ve learned to make sure I’ve got clothes on.

This Labor Day morning was a different picture altogether: the fog had been thick, the air was perfect with a slight, sunless-yet salty-warm breeze, and just three intrepid little fishing boats bobbed on the wind-topped saltwater, unable to see past their own bow. It was perfect.

That’s my favorite weather. I don’t enjoy the bright sunshine nearly as much as an overcast sky. The sun gives me a headache. The grey gives me energy and clears my thoughts. No wonder I gleefully fled Los Angeles. I think I’ve always been a Pacific Northwesterner at heart. I’m still waiting on the clear thoughts, but hey, all things in due time.

By 1pm the pea soup had made way for a kinder, gentler sort of bright blue sunshine, less piercing than the previous day’s. For whatever reason, the throng of boats was absent, with just a handful of hopeful fisherpeople seeing what they might come home with for dinner.
Balance had returned.
And by the end of the day, so had the whales.

Gesundheit!

And the heron? He did okay in the neighborhood today, and came back to watch the pink sunset with me. We’re both balancing, ever hope-filled, on the kelp.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Nothin’ but time.

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There are few things I dislike. But I will tell you right now that the final day of August is one of them.
Hate it, hate it, hate it.
If I were Queen I would declare that summer is to last one more month. While I was at it, I’d also institute three-day weekends and clocks that make time stand still when so desired, so y’all may begin the civil revolution right now to get me on the throne as soon as possible, for everyone’s sake. Did I mention that every Wednesday would be free ice cream day?

By the end of each August in recent memory, I’m finally primed and ready for that precious stillness between the flow of summer’s socialness, and the push of the other three seasons’ urgency. It’s August, usually somewhere woefully late, like the final day of the second week, in which I stumble upon a certain, calm sweet spot: a slack tide in my work-intensive year that’s filled with promise, but untouched by stress. Such delight, yet so fleeting. Sigh.

So here I am, like one of these nicely balanced log-surfing birds, lining up my gulls in a row for the coming autumn, placing concerts and residencies and speaking gigs and meetings and travel travel travel indications in my calendar’s little white boxes, and wishing I were a lot farther down my naively giddy June list of “things to accomplish in this faaaaabulous gaping block of time I have in my studio this summer” than I actually am. Notes have somehow sneaked onto the page without me looking, but oh, if only I owned that clock! I’d use it. Maybe you would, too.

Well, at least I can go to the freezer for some ice cream. It’s Wednesday!

I’ll take two scoops of the chocolate herring flavor, please.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Music for bird brains?

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Well, this gives new meaning to the name, “house sparrow.”

I’ve had to rescue an over-eager bird who ended up inside my bird feeder a while back, but that’s a piece of cake compared with coaxing one off of a 29 foot-high window sill and out the door.
Any door.
Pleeeeeaaase??

It happened like this, the little avian drama moment du jour:

1. I lovingly sprinkled birdseed on the deck railing (it can get really windy on this part of the island, so I’ve given up using hanging feeders that turn into seed torpedoes).
2. I opened my door wide to let the warm sea air in while I worked. Or, procrastinated from working. It matters not which.
3. Cute little birdies descended toward the railing for the free buffet. Awwww.
4. After a little while, so did an eagle.

Lunch?

5. All the cute little, potential birdie crudités instantly, chaotically scattered.
6. One went the wrong way.

“Uh, bake me a cake with a nail file in it, okay guys?…”

And so, it became a waiting game. Lacking any 30-foot long objects that just happen to be lying around, I briefly considered gently lobbing rolled-up socks at the poor fella with my good pitching arm. Of course, I’m a musician nerd and I don’t have a good pitching arm, but why should that stop me? Anyhow, before I could get upstairs to my lingerie closet (let’s see, would he prefer lace, or just a simple tube sock?), the birdie took off on a self-guided tour of my interior decorating. Every door and window that I could swing wide for his easy escape from prison had been opened, and yet this guy managed to wildly flap around in circles while I just prayed he didn’t leave droppings on my gear. There’s nothing in my insurance policy that covers repairs due to bird poop. Although if anyone were to comment that the piece I’m working on sounds like crap, I’d be able to smile broadly and proclaim, “Why, as a matter of fact, yes it does. Thank you!”.

His aerial tour went on for quite some time. We were both getting dizzy.
Then suddenly, a terrible thing happened: after making yet another full-speed lap inside the house, he bonked himself right into a window. Yikes.
I watched as he plummeted in slow motion, hoping that he was just stunned.
Which thankfully, he was.
Which thankfully, gave me a momentary advantage.
With his tiny feet clinging to a sofa pillow, I carefully maneuvered him toward an open door.
He fluttered, paused, fluttered some more, and then whoosh! Out the door he went, to settle on a rock two feet away. I brought him seed and a little water while he collected himself (my mothering instinct kicks in at times like this, and only at times like this), lectured him on the use of turn signals (see? I shoulda been a mother), advised him to get his Global Positioning Sparrow unit fixed (okay, if not a mother, then maybe a mechanic), and went back to work (or procrastinating, whatever I was doing before all this activity).

A few minutes later he was gone. My jailbird flew the coop, and I’m hoping his recidivism rate is very, very low.
Because my ceiling is very, very high!

…click to listen:

…about the music

Yee ha, hee haw; thank gawd I’m a country grrrrrl.

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Welcome to the San Juan County Fair! The lead photo of this post truly sums up island life. The only thing missing on this horse is a snap-on dorsal fin.

Having flogged you, dear Kelpville readers, with endless pix of orcas, foxes, eagles, raccoons, alpacas, squishy sea creatures, and furry critters, I thought it would be a nice change to show you some basic farm animals from last week’s rural roundup, since the San Juan Islands have a significant agricultural community. And, one helluva lot of hay this time of year. Come with me on a guided tour…

Got milk??

Next time your kids are driving you bonkers, think of this momma of ten. Unless you happen to have ten kids, in which case, my condolences.

This one apparently was jailed due to a drinking problem.

Now we know which came first. The chicken, above. At least on THIS blog.

Having a bad hair day? This gives new meaning to “cow lick.”

I strongly advised this cow not to look up and read the sign.

Yup, THIS sign. Hey, don’t look at me: I don’t eat meat.

Or, birds.

And that’s what they have to say on the matter.

Halo, Dolly! I’ve never before seen such an angelic sheep.

More jailbirds. Doesn’t look like these duckies are rovin’ anywhere anytime soon.

I’m a city girl. I’d never even heard of a “cavy” before. This fair is fun AND educational!

That about sums up this (and every) year’s collection. The only other tame farm animal exhibit that failed to make the photo essay was me, slurping up a sno-cone as I wandered around the warm, dusty stalls. Ok: TWO sno-cones, because I had to have one each day I went to the fair, because 1. I love them; 2. it’s part of my patriotic duty, and 3. nothing says “county fair” like shaved ice in three colors and a bunch of unidentifiable sugar-glop at the bottom of the cup as it melts. Well, “corn dog” says “county fair” just as effectively, but since I don’t eat meat, rather than assault my body with grease, I choose instead to flirt with keeling over from a diabetic coma. I can see it now: as I fainted, I’d be smiling broadly all the way down, no doubt keeping my sno-cone from hitting the ground much like a shortstop protects a precious fly ball. OUT! But, happy.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Under, over, and through.

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This has been a particularly restorative summer for me. I’ve had the joy of staying put here in Kelpville, and being entertained by the endless parade of wild creatures you see in these blog pixels, plus many [slightly less wild, in most cases] friends who have joined me week after week exploring this magical little spot on the planet. Music has been made, laugh lines have been deepened, and a few wine bottles have been emptied (ok, more than a few). A general sense of well-being (and where I live, whale-being) due to a high dose of introspection and calm and not taking myself too seriously, has landed me in a damn good mood, renewed for the work year ahead.

With the exception of a three-day jaunt to a small neighboring island lacking plumbing and electricity to visit a dear, exceptionally talented friend, my body remained solidly planted on San Juan Island for two and a half beautiful months until now. After several years of seemingly continual travel, I’m becoming a bit more circumspect in my choices about when to leave this asylum of personal joy.

This past weekend offered a worthy reason to jump the rock. I traveled back to a place that in retrospect, turned out to be what more-than-obliquely inspired my move to San Juan Island 4.5 years ago: a historic artist retreat called The MacDowell Colony, in Peterborough, New Hampshire. I was a fellow there in 2003 (a state of residency, not gender reassignment, although my name is awfully convenient), and my fruitful weeks in a wooded cabin amidst wild turkeys (the birds, not shots of the bourbon in this case) were life-changing. Of course, Wild Turkey has been life-changing for plenty of folks, in both good and less than ideal ways, but I’m more of a Woodford Reserve or Maker’s Mark kinda gal, and if feeling particularly flush, I prefer to temporarily change my life, or at least my immediate take on it, with a glass of Blanton’s. But I digress.

Anyway, since last year I’ve had the honor of serving on the organization’s board, which convened there this weekend (for the record, the Board is quite separate from the admissions panels). It was giddily wonderful to return to the former scene of my artistic crime against innocent notes (the Colony’s incessant cicadas that summer had a bizarre influence on the flute quartet I penned there. Fortunately for my police record, the statute of limitations has passed). The board meeting was set to coincide with “Medal Day,” an annual tradition during which the normally über-private (darkly mysterious to some, even) grounds are opened to the public, and a distinguished creator is honored. This year playwright Edward Albee was the guest, and the speech he offered was both hilarious and very touching. Who knew that had it not been for a chance encounter on the Colony grounds with Thornton Wilder, Albee might well have remained a poet and never penned a single play?

My composing cabin at MacDowell: bucolic, to say the least. Turkeys were around the other side, making funny sounds at me. Everyone’s a critic.

I remember very well the new perspective that followed me home from Peterborough to Los Angeles that September eight years ago. Taking stock of the noisy, neurotic, 73 MPH environment that encroached upon my speck of slow-motion sanity on the Malibu shore, I became possessed by the idea that since I had been so happy and productive living in a rural, fairly isolated natural area, then perhaps my life should look and feel like that: every single day.

I’m the kind of person who, if I ever actually had “good china” that I really loved, would use it constantly until each piece was chipped beyond hope. I don’t believe in saving things for special occasions. “Life is short, eat dessert first” is a workable description of my less than pithy religious philosophy, and since 1993, I’ve chosen to live in places others covet for their vacations. Malibu. Santa Barbara. The San Juans. I will omit the ten years I spent in my 20’s living in the San Fernando Valley. Trust me, no one vacations there if they have other options. Although, I did admire the endless row of gi-normous palm trees on the boulevard where I lived, leading the way to tacky fast food restaurants and garishly painted gas stations weighing down all four corners of every intersection. But I digress.

Anyway, with the advent of the internet, and a composing career that found itself well supported by that technology, it dawned on me that I could live anywhere in the world that had electricity and DSL (I wouldn’t do well on my pal’s island). After all, I’m not a gigging performer (I prefer to make all the other musicians who play my stuff do the hard work). It matters not where I am, as long as I can hit the send button. In fact, I’m certain that lots of players would prefer I stay put, kept at a safe distance by my seawater moat, and not bother them.

When I was at MacDowell in 2003, they loaned me a bike, and a chipmunk.

Four years after my residency, having finally had enough of the crazed mania that redundantly describes southern California, I moved 1500 miles north to this remote floating paradise. The experience in New Hampshire had turned out to be deeply significant to my future, in a way that I could not have foreseen at the time. The MacDowell Colony offered me a distraction-free glimpse not only into my art, but into my life. I ran with that ball of internal observation, and ended up creating a personal, year-round artist retreat for myself (and the occasional, GPS-challenged sparrow who flies into the house when I keep the door open too wide). I’ve never been happier. What I lack in lunch baskets thoughtfully delivered to my doorstep, and engaging discourse with other creators over after-dinner ping-pong, is made up for in all you see––and hear––on these blog pages. The gift of time at an artist colony is precious. What has resonated long since I gathered up those cicada-inspired note-filled score pads and brought them back home, has been profound.

When I left L.A. for this funny little place that few had ever heard of, I warned my other composer friends that hey, if my career suddenly takes a nose dive, don’t do what I did. Amazingly, the opposite has been the case. So now I tell my friends to trust their gut instincts, and to be aware that sometimes we have more choice and more power over the look and feel of our lives than we may have previously realized.

Eat dessert first. Have some more, a little later. Do the work that compels you, obey your heart, smile a lot, and just maybe, the Universe will give you some unexpected rewards: turkeys, chipmunks, whales, and joy.

June’s rising full moon over the sea, from my island doorstep.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Blues veena to preen by.

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Morning. Strong coffee at hand. A good counterpoint to the even stronger red wine the night before. Both beverages are helping me with the counterpoint I need to be composing shortly. I sit and inhale the kelpy/salty/invigorating/warming air, watching artfully contorted gulls as they preen and groom themselves for the new day.

Me? Maybe I won’t even get to the shower today, and just scramble around these rocks like a tomboy until my muses are pleased with the notes that fly around my head. Unpreened, ungroomed. The muses, the notes, and me.
But not these gulls!

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…about the music

Sly? No, just sleepy.

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Driving by this modest roadside interpretative sign about Senator Henry M. Jackson and his conservationist efforts, a person might have been so stunned by the expansive view out to Vancouver Island and the Olympics, that she could easily have missed a small detail.

But not my friend in the passenger seat today, who spotted something that didn’t appear to have been installed with the signpost.
“Stop! Look!”
There was urgency in her voice.
She’s a great friend, so heck, I obeyed. I stopped the car. In fact, I stopped, and then I backed up a few yards and pulled off the road.
We opened our doors and walked toward the sign.

Adorable. And not the least bit disturbed from its nap, as we cooed and took photos.

One quick, bleary-eyed check of the surroundings…

And back to sleep, holding down a shadow exactly the right size.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Dinner time?

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I truly wanted to believe that the three of them didn’t know something I don’t about my health.
By which I mean, my impending demise.
Was it pending sooner than I planned?

The trio of turkey vultures continued to circle. Again, and again.
Directly over me.
For an intimidatingly long time.
I didn’t just hear the diaphanous sound of their broad wingspans flapping.
I actually felt the slight movement in the air that the flapping generated on this very windless day.

They flew low.

Looking like an FAA holding pattern on a crammed afternoon at JFK, these enormous scavengers spent longer than I personally thought they needed to, sizing up whether I’d be keeling over soon enough to make the main course for lunch, or if they’d have to bide their time with vole and field mouse hors d’oeuvres (sooooo boring) until I could be served warm for a late supper.

Gazing straight up to the beautiful, full spread of feathers and talons, I realized that I was viewing the same, very last image, as has many a hapless rodent.
Hmm.

It’s still light out as I type this. All bets are off.

…click to listen:

…about the music

What’s beneath, and above.

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Company while I work? Okay.
Company that’s color-coordinated to match my piano? Priceless.

This time of year, orca (“killer”) whales rule up here, and I have the dumb luck of living on the shoulder of their highway as they commute from one feeding area to the next. While my former neighbors throughout Los Angeles prepare for a weekend ominously dubbed Carmageddon and steel themselves for the mother of all gridlocks due to a main freeway closure this weekend, I exhale and observe a different kind of high volume traffic.

I listen to it, as much as watch it.
You see, the most beautiful thing about these creatures is that you often hear them before you see them. A mysterious, other-wordly “whooooshhhh” suddenly comes from around the rocks. I raise my head. I see nothing. Another “whuusszzzh” flies across the sound-conducting water from half a mile away. I look up. I can make out the top of a black 6-foot tall dorsal fin in the distance, just before it ducks back into the sea.

Another “woooossscccchhhh.” This time, I’m greeted with three whales lumbering toward me on the other side of the bull kelp that hugs the rocky shoreline here. That’s often just about 40 yards away. But yesterday was very special: the pod came right up to the rocks, gliding through the kelp beds, with one of the fellas showing, as you may notice among these photos, some rather amorous behavior. And he didn’t even take me out to dinner first.

On this particular day, the animals were maybe 7 yards from my toes. I was speechless. I could almost reach out and pet them. Objects in photos are much, much larger than they appear, folks. My limited camera skills don’t represent the incredible moment, but they at least offer an idea.

Yesterday’s view from my desk chair.

Getting a better look at the neighborhood…

What’s under the chassis.

The sound of their breathing is utterly magical. During the day, it’s also often accompanied by the incessant hum of idling boat engines, as whale watch tours and day sailors follow the pods like an amusing-looking slow-motion escort service. Friday Harbor’s charming annual Fourth of July parade– something out of a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical– always represents for the orcas, since they never seem to get up early enough in the morning to make it:

Yes, doggies with dorsal fins. What more can I say.

Just like me, the whales are after salmon. In particular, Chinook salmon, like this:

Which swim around these parts, along with other sea creatures. Someone should tell the orcas that if they’re looking for lunch, they need to come into town.

It’s fun to watch them dive for a meal…

And “spy hop” as they surface…

But the best, best, best thing of all, is when early evening arrives. The boats have all gone back to the harbor. And it’s just me, the whales, and the whoooooshes.

Magical.

…click to listen:

…about the music

ZZzzzz…

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As I passed this rock the other day, one I’ve passed many times, the corner of my eye caught something a little different.
I turned, and noticed what at first glance looked like a darker rock atop this larger one.
It didn’t move. Um, like a rock. Well behaved. Stable. Steady as a… rock.
I looked a little closer.

Oh. Not a rock. I didn’t want to get any closer, since I agree with Chaucer: “It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake.”
Nor, a slepyng fox!