Over the next two days, I waited a cumulative 16 hours in the plant’s main office, listening anxiously as the Dutch Harbor airport radioed weather updates every 15 minutes. I tried not to feel too desperate, but it was impossible. Though by no means a guarantee, a speedy departure from Dutch Harbor would be doable— even probable— if I could just get there. I was not about to let a 20-minute flight— a mere thirty-five miles— keep me from making it to a warm shower, good food, my boyfriend and civilization itself. My resolve, unfortunately, wasn’t force enough to change my circumstances. On my third day in port, the clouds swirled apart just long enough for PenAir to schedule a flight, only to cancel it due to a “mechanical issue.” I felt the elements conspiring against me.
Early that evening I found a boat headed for Dutch. I thought my luck returned. Told to be back by six, I was ecstatic, and arrived early to make certain I wasn’t left behind. Four other stowaways and I loaded our gear on board, swapping stories about how long we’d been trying to leave and about the people waiting for us back home. But just fifteen minutes before our planned departure, the skipper returned to inform us that he’d received orders from his boss to head back to the Bering Sea for another week of fishing. I was devastated.
Had my circumstances been different, a stay of indeterminate length in a place so wild and isolated might have been exciting and fun. But this was no adventure. I was homesick, lonely and utterly disenchanted with Akutan. On the verge of losing hope, I checked the plant’s delivery schedule one last time. A boat would be in at midnight.
Alone at the edge of the pier, I watched the vessel’s navigational lights wink on at the horizon and grow slowly brighter as it approached land. “Yeah, we’re headed that way.” The captain told me when he arrived. “We don’t have an extra bunk for you and it’s going to be a bumpy ride, but you’re welcome to come along.” Fishing boats aren’t built for speed so it would take six hours to travel thirty-five miles, and we’d be heading straight into a gale. I didn’t care. I threw my gear on board, dragged it across the slimy deck, and collapsed on a galley bench. Too exhausted to care whether I was really making it out of Akutan or not, I slept through the entire journey— 20-foot swells and all.
When we tied the boat up in Dutch Harbor the sky seemed less angry, but still dark. My skirmish with nature hadn’t gone well thus far, so I didn’t believe I was on my way home when I arrived at the airport. Nor did I believe it when I heard my name called from the standby passenger list, or when I trudged onto the plane and settled into my seat. Even when our flight attendant closed the passenger door and the engine roared in my ears, I still half expected to hear our pilot announce that we’d be unable to leave after all.
But as our plane climbed above the clouds— a gray ceiling a moment ago, now a brilliant white carpet beneath us— I curled up in my standard-issue airline blanket and went to sleep. I would be home soon.
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Osprey - JournAlum - The Lumberjack - KRFH/610 AM - Travel
2008 Travel Journal
- Matthew Hawk
Copy Editors - Anthony Barstow, Rose R. Miller, and Matt Barry