The North Western Alexa

The North Western Alexa

Alexa Coates, Swedish Harbor, North Point Island, Point Islands, Aleutian Islands, AK

11 January

“We left Swedish a week ago with fuel and extra supplies due to the expected storms. The CB radio’s on to keep in touch with people onshore. I’ve got expectations for a good catch.” -Captain’s log of the Alexa

Dad left last week for opilio season on his old downeaster boat. It’s another winter storm. The blackness is all I can see looking at the window. Last night he told us the repairs on her were done and he was going to try and get some sleep. He’ll send us an email if the phone onboard doesn’t work. The last time that happened was when I was ten, three years ago. They only got the phone fixed the next Sunday, so Mom had to wait until after church to answer.

It’s nine-ten and I’m writing this at the desk in my bedroom. This journal was an early Christmas present from Mom. She gave it to me the day after Wednesday night prayers. After we got back from church, I was so tired I flopped down on my bed and spent a few minutes listening to the living room conversation. It’s practice for keeping the Alexa’s log when I leave school. There isn’t nothing I’d like to do better than be a crabber like my father. I’ve always loved the feel of the wind on my face when I go on deck during the crab seasons and salmon and halibut seasons, despite how cold it is. Dad told me that thousands of years ago before the Russians came, our ancestors used bone hooks, spears, and lines and sinkers to fish. He said he'd teach me if he had time. This morning when I went out to collect the eggs from the shed in, it was sleeting. My face stung, so I pulled my red coat tighter around my shoulders and pushed the hood up my head, hiding my curls. I have an Afro, because of my granddad who's from Long Island and fought in World War II against the Japanese. He’s black and Montauk. That’s why I have an English last name. A few seconds ago, we were on the couch listening to the weather report on the radio. The sea’ll be up to 50 feet and the winds are going to be up to about 40 knots for the next two weeks or so. Sat there for half an hour. Well, it sure seemed like it. I had pins and needles in my legs. At least my fingers aren’t numb. Joel spent a minute fiddling with his shoelaces and looking at the clouds. Mom started humming under her breath. I looked up from my sewing. My fingers bled already.

“What?” I sucked my finger. It’s not an experience I want to repeat. Lena’d asked me about Dad- the question we all wanted answered. “Is Dad gonna be OK?” Wanted to say “Yeah”, but what’d I say? “Maybe.” The answer no one wanted to hear. Hate to say stuff like that. Mom should’ve said it. Or even Joey.

Mom’s calling me. I need to brush my teeth in a few minutes. Maybe Dad’ll call later. He usually calls around the time we get to bed. Sometimes he calls after one of us wakes up- usually Mom. It depends. Wish I was listenin to the waves and seagulls on deck. There’s been lots of storms. I always remembered the one when I was three and Joey was five. It was dungie season. Our parents bought us presents when we docked, including a blue coat for me and a train set we were forced to share. When we got up in Dad’s cabin next morning, there was rain on the window and the sky was covered in grey clouds. Kept hearing sledgehammers on deck, pounding off the ice.

13 January

I’ve been in the loft for hours, reading and writing in this journal. It’s quiet in here, sitting on the floor next to a pile of books which were brought up here because our basement’s cluttered up. It’s funny how life goes on even though Dad hasn’t called us once in the weeks since he left. Or even emailed. I haven’t written anything because I’ve been catching up working through questions on of our class novel and math problems. Joey’s initials’re written inside my “new” math textbook cover. “J. B. C. 7F. North Point Harbor School”.

I had a blueberry jam sandwich for breakfast, made using the leftover jam in the fridge. It was the best one I’ve made. It’s still cloudy and pretty windy. After feeding the chickens. I went for a run around the docks. I can see the hills and more clearly from there. There were puddles on every inch of the ground.

Something else happened a few minutes ago. There was a noise up in the rooftops when I first woke up this morning and now it’s come back. It’s three scratches, like something’s trying to get in through the window. I thought I imagined it.

edited 2nd Oct '12 4:08:01 PM by MorwenEdhelwen

15 January

The phone line’s dead. Mom’s been trying to get through to Dad every five minutes. Nothing. She just went to bed, saying, “I’ll try again tomorrow.” She muttered, “It just cut off! I don’t know what’s going on.”I heard her walking quickly along the corridor to our parents’ bedroom and slamming the door. They could probably hear her footsteps in Canada. I’m closing this.

edited 29th Sep '12 10:09:01 PM by MorwenEdhelwen

Anyone have comments on this one? (It's older, but I've recently rewritten it.)

• Add a little more to the noise upstairs. Something should happen (stuff moved, a light outside, scratches on the ledge of the window). While Nothing Is Scarier, nothing happening isn't.
• What time does this story take place? Daddy can have a sat phone but would most likely use a ship to shore radio (much cheaper). Cell phones would work 60 miles out, but the places were he fishes, no bars. Him not calling from a scheduled stop, that should freak out the daughter. In many cultures, it's common to downplay things like that to keep the children from being worried.
• Have her overhear stuff about daddy missing that stop.

hope this helps

edited 1st Oct '12 8:41:21 AM by TairaMai

@Taira Mai: Thanks.