The Island Bus

Whidbey Island

July 2012

On the cusp of middle age, I am just starting to explore what else I can do with my time now that I’m not raising children. If I let myself think—really think—about how much the last 20 years gave me, and how much they took out of me, well, I’d put down this pen and cry, and then take a nap.

I turned 47 a month or so ago, a curious fact that I pull out occasionally and examine, then tuck away again wherever it is that I store unwelcome information. It’s exhausting to think how exhausted I’ve been for the last 20 years.

Before that, from what I remember, I was the proud owner of a typical amount of energy and enthusiasm for life—maybe even a little more than the usual allotment.

I guess I have some time now to try to lure and corral that energy once more.

I brought five books with me for a four-day trip and now wondered why. Now that I did the math, bringing five books seemed a bit excessive. But I hate when I start a book and realize it is not the masterpiece I was expecting. What follows is a heated internal discussion about when, in good conscience, I can move on to the next one; hence the five books.

I landed in Seattle without mishap and boarded the Whidbey Seatac shuttle. The first thing I noticed about the locals was that they wear jackets in July. I hoped that was just a quaint custom and not indicative of the requirements of the region. One woman actually wore mittens, which I had no choice but to dismiss as purely eccentric.

I did notice a distinct sharpness in the air that is decidedly missing in Northern California. I resolved not to let the weather distract me. I was, after all, there to nurture my flagging soul.

Our shuttle driver, Helen, relayed, cheerfully, that once we crossed on the ferry, Coupeville would be our second stop. Coupeville was my stop. The sun shone in an almost cloudless sky, which I took to be a good omen.

*** 

My room at the Bed & Breakfast overlooked the water. With cheerful abandon I scattered my belongings here and there, gleefully conscious that nobody would see the room except me, not even the maid. I would make good use of the “Do not disturb” sign hanging on the doorknob.

When the task was completed to my satisfaction, I headed “downtown” to Coupeville’s one street. I noticed the sign for Toby’s Tavern and wondered why, when I see bars in general, the windows are darkened, even the screened doors are dark, and one has no idea what is going on in there.

I’d never in my life pushed a door open to a bar, alone, but today was the day. I pushed the screened door and walked in as though I did this sort of thing on a daily basis. The room was smoky, but taverns are supposed to be smoky. I approached the bar, ordered a Deschutes porter, and climbed onto a barstool.

Was I blending in? I hoped so. Maybe I had fewer tattoos (or none) and wasn’t smoking or wearing a baseball cap, but other than that, I wasn’t attracting too much attention.

On my menu, I read this excerpt from the Island News, June 1884:

“This town is comprised of two stores of general merchandise, one drug store, three hotels, two saloons, one blacksmith and wagon shop, courthouse, post office, schoolhouse, 25 dwelling homes, a church of Methodist denomination, and efforts are being made to organize an Episcopal church.”

That made me smile.

I played a mental game with the sun; I wouldn’t go back to my room until the sun went down. After all, I had less than a block to walk to get back to the Bed & Breakfast.

But time passed and the sun remained stubbornly perched in the sky. After a while I realized I would lose this wager and settled my bill. As it turned out, I watched the sun set outside the window from my bed; it didn’t set until after 10:00.

The next day I discovered a bus stop about one block from my hotel. I learned that I could stand on one side of the street to travel south and on the other side of the street to travel north. With an island map marked up and clutched in my hand, I picked a side and waited for the south-bound bus.

The first thing I noticed was that the bus stopped for anyone who even looked like he might be waiting for a bus. It didn’t matter where the person was standing. The bus stopped abruptly on the highway, on unmarked street corners, and at grocery stores.

When we reached the town of Freeland, I had to change to another route. Route 1 did not go all the way to Langley at the south end of the island. I could wait on the one tiny bench for the Route 7 bus. At one end of the bench sat a tiny, white-haired lady and she made room for me obligingly.

I’m not sure how the conversation turned, but we moved with lightening speed from how sunny it was to the story of her life.

She told me that she was 94 years old. During the Second World War she was a young mother in her 20s with a husband and two small sons. The Russians came and invaded her Latvian village and her husband was shot and killed for resisting. Then she and her mother and sons were put in a concentration camp where they stayed for six years.

She caught her breath and looked away when she mentioned the concentration camp.

The war ended and the Americans came, but they didn’t know what to do with so many people from the eastern block countries. Eventually, she and her mother and sons were given the chance to immigrate to Washington state.

Not long after they arrived, she was invited to a birthday party at the home of a Latvian woman and she met a man. It turned out they came from the same village in Latvia and had gone to the same schools. They were married four months later.

They were happily married for 44 years. She told me that he went fishing one day and died in his boat. Devastated, she wanted to die herself. She didn’t believe she would know any greater pain until her son died at the age of 63. She whispered to me that all her friends had passed, too, and she was the only one left.

When the bus stopped in the town of Langley, she wished me well and made her way up the hill to her apartment.

I stood and watched her walk up the hill, marveling that a 94 year old had such a steady gait. Then she disappeared around a corner.

I turned and explored the town. Islanders must not trust the weather because although it was warm and sunny, they all wore jeans and sweatshirts. Every type of flower bloomed and sprawled in profusion. I thought the flowers must love all the rain.

At the end of the day, I made my way back to Coupeville. In Freeland, as I waited to change routes, I sat next to a man in his 30s. I noticed a tattoo on his arm that said “FLOW.” I couldn’t help myself and asked him what it meant.

He looked up at the sky and then said there was a time in his life when he didn’t let things flow, when he just got angry and made every situation worse. The word FLOW reminded him to take life as it came and not cause himself too many problems. It reminded him not to get in his own way.

I nodded and thought we should all have that tattoo.

At that moment, the radio dispatcher came on and informed the bus driver that if there was a girl named Jasmine on the bus to tell her that her grandma would pick her up in Coupeville. I sighed; I guess that was island life.

As the bus glided over the island, I read the green highway signs. I loved the names of things: Mutiny Bay, Useless Bay, and Deception Bay. Captain Vancouver named Deception Bay when he thought he’d found the northwest passage and realized that he hadn’t. Useless Bay was too shallow for ships to navigate successfully and was therefore called Useless Bay.

I jotted down this poem as I rode along.

The Island Bus

I can travel north

or I can travel south,

I’m startled, again

that nobody cares.

A strip of ocean

runs alongside,

the only witness

to my little adventure.

I bump along toward

a loose destination,

content to drift without

knowing the time.

The sun and the trees

are my steadfast companions,

they make no demands

and echo my joy.

After five restful days on the island, I boarded the shuttle and made my way south and home again. Home to where bus drivers only stop at bus stops and where they don’t pass messages along to the riders. Home to where people would rather not say too much about their lives.

On Whidbey Island, I became reacquainted with silence, a long-lost friend. I rediscovered that within the boundaries of silence lives introspection. And after five days of uninterrupted introspection, my mind cleared and my soul lightened.

And each evening, sitting on a bench overlooking the water, I watched the sun hang stubbornly in the sky and waited.

Neither of us was in any kind of hurry.