home

What a joy it was to see my family last week, as the Yankee Boy motored its way into Squalicum Harbor. Our families were standing in a crowd on the edge of the dock, smiling, waving, and occasionally cheering as we pulled into our spot. I stood on the bumper that runs along the side of the hull, the water of the harbor gently parting beneath my feet, and leaped onto the dock to hook up our tie lines. "Hi guys," I said, as I looped the spring line around the cleat. I saw my mom, beaming in that way that only a mom can when she sees her boys for the first time in months. I saw my little brother, lanky as ever, but by now definitely taller than me. Bethany was wrapped up in Ben's tan Carhart jacket, and I was struck by how much a woman she looked with her layered hair and understated yet elegant sense of style. Dad stood behind them all, faintly smiling, eager to open the doors of our home to me once again.

I stayed in the fisherman's reality for a couple moments longer as Jim slowly idled the boat against the dock, the fenders swelling as they absorbed the weight. Then we had the boat tied up, and I walked over to embrace my family.

I've been home for over a week now, trying to process all that happened in Alaska, invest in time with my family, and prepare for the rapid approach of my first fall term at Oxford. My mom told me the other day that I seemed happy, yet shaken in a way that she had not seen in a long time. My family sees in to me in a way that I am sometimes unable to see into myself, and conversations like these help me to make sense of what I am thinking and feeling. Alaska strengthened me, but it also stripped me of a lot of certainty. I loved the men of my crew, and miss them even as I write this, but they broke me down even as they imparted to me the wisdom of 80 collective years on the sea.

We went on a two-night hiking/camping trip this past weekend. As we climbed the highway 20 past the Gorge, Diablo, and Ross dams on our way to Washington pass I remembered that not even the Alaskan wilderness can compare to the majesty of the North Cascades. Some of the most beautiful places on earth have always been in my backyard, but it has taken many years and hundreds of miles for me to begin to understand this.

And for the first time in years we were together as a family again in the outdoors. This sort of outing had long become impossible for my mother, and only recently with her new transplant has she been strong enough and healthy enough to make the trip. We made camp, finished off a couple cans of beef stew (the whole family now competes with me for top eater!), and got up early to prepare breakfast before heading off on our hike. The Heather Pass trail works its way through some truly breathtaking scenery, but rather than waste space trying to describe it to you I'll direct you to the Picassa album I just started working on (sorry if all the photos still aren't up yet--at least Alaska pics are there).

Mountain air. The whisper of the wind in the valley. Limitless sky. The sapphire blue of glacier-fed pools. Freedom. Family. God is here.

As I reflect on that time on the mountain, I believe that it was a time of healing for us, individually and collectively. What a gift.

On the way home took a detour and stopped at the Diablo dam lake for a picnic lunch and some swimming (Ben's idea, not mine--so glad he thought of it!). The lake is a surreal blue-green color, and the water is cold and fresh. In the hot, dry mountain air my father, brother, and sister and I jump in while mom watches from the shore. Surrounded by the mountain peaks, with the sun blazing from the deep blue sky we once again experience the joy of unconcerned freedom, of childlike innocence. Bethany and I discover a line of logs anchored to the lake bottom with long chains, and roll uncontrollably when you try to stand on them. Log rolling competitions immediately ensue, our laughs and shouts reverberating off the canyon walls. The score: Aaron, 1; Bethany, 1; 2 ties.

The restless energy that lets me know it's time to leave has begun to set in, yet I am still at peace with where I am. Yesterday I spoke with a loved one about the gift of health: trials come, and when they do so does the grace to handle them, yet we are only ever given the present moment to enjoy. I'll be in Oxford soon enough, and when I do it's going to be good. But right now I'm here for a few more days--exactly where I need to be.

Aaron