Summer Solstice

What better way to bring in the longest day of the year with a cruise down the river with the flaming sun as your copilot? And of course with your buddy who ties PBR to a line in a plastic bag to float behind, only to leave a gift to the next lucky soul to float in our path.

Pre-river float, the day began on Shanti, Louis’s junk rig, where we used a pulley system to erect his mast into place. I learned a thing or two about tying a cleat knot and Louis learned a thing or two about how to stow a pulley rope to accommodate for dock heights. He kept talking to me in sailor terms as though I knew what the hell he was talking about and I had to keep reminding him that I wasn’t one of his classmates, just a willing friend.

After our work, which wasn’t much at all- I didn’t even break a sweat, though the wind blowing off the harbor must have kept me cool in the sun- we paddled the rig into its slip and got to really kick back. This was the first boat besides a ferry that I’ve been on since I’ve been out west.

I was impressed by the small quarters that houses our friend Louis, and by his lack of stuff, since the interior of Shanti is now his bedroom. Every thing was miniature- miniature prayer flags, miniature bed (more of a bench), miniature toilet. Books pertaining to boat culture lined the nooks and crannies and table tops, as did family photos and notes on paper. He even had a little propane stove and a bottle of champagne, a graduation gift.

Since his sails weren’t ready to be set- he had to find a truck to pick up 13 foot long battens for his unique single sail configuration- a float down the Skagit seemed appropriate to finish out the longest day of the year. We’d save a cruise along the San Juans for next time. We launched from Edgewater and caught the current on the sides and paddled off towards the south fork. From the second our kayak wooshed into the water, that proverbial feeling of refreshment and rejuvenation washed over me as we were thrust into an age-old method of relaxation.

From the inside of the river, we could see all the secret beaches and hidden tarp-tents and old wooden shacks and dock stations. We scouted a prime camping site on an islet and made a mental note to come back with more beer and gear.

At journeys end, we were able to gently persuade our ride back to go for a sunset jaunt through the flats and on up to Chuckanut. Why not throw another beautiful adventure into the sequence? Why not pull over at mile marker 12 on Chuckanut Drive and start a bonfire?

A group of youngsters had beat us to our sought-after spot by a long shot- their fire was roaring- but they eagerly invited us to join them. They were good kids. They shared their Carlo Rossi with us and even their Tofurky dogs and their green stuff.

Dillon was my favorite- a bright eyed quality kid, a laid back stoner who is never mad. He told me this, drunk- we all know drunk minds speak sober hearts- and he proved it to me through his disposition. He’s leaving for Germany in 4 days and couldn’t f-ing believe it. This kid had the best projectile vomit I have ever seen- out of nowhere he leans over and spews right on the fire, practically putting it out. The coals screamed and hissed under his wet vomit as though someone had thrown a bucket of water on it. This kept happening over and over again from his sporting chair, but he had a great attitude about it the entire time.

We sauntered off when the kids were getting too drunk to stay up and it was time for bed for the camping little drunksters. And back down the mountain we went into good ole Mount Vernon, and I drifted off to sleep in the car, leaning on the deflated kayak.