You almost miss the exit on Old Highway 101. Partly
Because you expect to take the grander turn, the one before—
Steamboat Island—
And partly because you were gazing at those black hills draped with a scent utterly foreign. You shake your
Head, remembering the cow statuary in a neighboring farm belonging
To the man who told you of this place.
You didn’t want to come here.
You wanted to stay with what you had always known: A rickety
Shack, fresh papaya thumping on a metal roof, wild boars and a constant 82 degrees that was way too hot for you,
Though you’d never admit it—
No.
You didn’t even know it.
You had never seen snow, or autumn colored leaves, all you knew was that you
Were leaving
A place you had always known, a salty smell of humuhumunukukuapua’as.
You are sad.
And want to take that other path, one that points you back
To what you thought was true north
But the GPS on your dash screams—flashes as if to say:
No.
Instead you turn onto Oyster Bay Road, a little
Snake of asphalt curling at a sharp ninety degree corner. You’re greeted by fields,
Chickens—a peacock?—running alongside a fence, miniature horses, and a
Sunset that bleeds beauty in a way you never thought possible.
You take the turn a little too fast 50 when you should be 35
—it’s your first time—
And start up the hill: a sledding splendor. You take the first street, because you
Don’t know the second entrance is faster: It is a loop, after all.
And you circle around evergreens and pines and oaks, until—
Yes.
There it is.
You pull into the drive, your black carpet, and frown.
A mud puddle?
The Puget Sound was supposedly gorgeous, but the water is
Out—useless to you; but
You will learn
The dangerous exquisiteness of this place; you’re four or so
Red rain boots stuck in a foot of gunk—sinking,
Screaming. Because you know this
Is the end. You will sneak
Out of your house—a year—later after you put your Mama down
For bed. And wander the winding trail to feast
On marshmallows and hotdogs and watch a flickering fire with that boy—
You call him brother—and you don’t understand why
Mother is angry.
You, come some 13 years later, will miss the stench of those flats, the herons flying low, the eagles nesting in your tree, the raccoons
Digging for clams with their young, like your family does
Every Fourth of July. And you will realize
That this is more wondrous than some lethargic and tropical
“Paradise”
You have in front of you the makings of life—
Of purity and things that really matter
‘The Endangered’ frolic here—annoy you at times, even.
And before you realize it, you have
Come to call this Totten Inlet
Home.