jonathan livingston's revenge

Last time I was in Viva Seattle, I spent hours hanging over the waterfront railings watching the ferries. Listening to those bellowing throaty groans from the neat white boats, trimmed in green, flocks of fat seagulls tumbling in its wake. I didn't know where they went, but I wanted to take them.

I'm discovering there's a whole lotta stuff here. Like, Canada. And San Juan Islands. And Orcas. You can jump in a boat to Alaska in no time provided you've got enough sunblock. Among the clippers that head to British Columbia and the Royal Carribbean ships that pick up here en route to Juneau, there are ferries departing hourly from various islands of the Pacific Northwest. Bainbridge is supposedly one of the more popular destinations, but for sake of both adventure and view, we jumped on the ferry to Bremerton in the beginning of a gorgeous Saturday. The mountains -- Olympics, Cascades, Rainier, the whole nine -- were out loud and clear. The stunning landscape is simply not getting old for me. I've been informed that the state of Washington allows a six-month grace period during which grossly-extended jaws and pop-eyes are permissable during city travel. After that, heavy fines are enforced for gawking at the skyline. I've got five more months to be a tourist.

My tour guide is actually privately-hired; he is The Boy from UW I've scooped up. We've been lighting campfires in his back yard, having cherry-pit-spitting contests, comparing park sunsets, and listening to too much Johnny Cash. So I said 'ferry' and he said 'Bremerton' and there we were Saturday morning hanging over the rails and staring at the churning Puget Sound bound for this Naval base neither of us had ever lain eyes on.

Silver ghost town. Slate and garish noon and out-of-business, closed, boarded up, steel gratey and construction sand. We wandered in the blaring sun in search of the main street and realized we'd already reached the end of it. Seeking sustenance, we returned to the sketchy strip of waterfront venues, toward the Drift Inn; surveying our options we entered the most boisterous of the three, hoping for safety in numbers.

We thought we entered a pub. What we entered, actually, was the Twighlight Zone.

The dead silent streets, roamed only by those who departed the ferry with us and the occasional tumbleweed, were apparently empty because everyone was at the Drift Inn. Early afternoon drunken activities ensued, pool playing, cackling, ass-grabbing, sports on TV, a demographic I couldn't quite put my finger on -- but we were the youngest pair by at least two generations. We sat cautiously at a high wood table scattered with confetti shaped like pineapples and flamingos. To my left, a bubblegum diner waittress was making transactions of a decidedly un-restaurant-related nature. I glanced wide-eyed at my cohort who suggested an alternate site for afternoon refreshment.

Heads lowered and tails between our legs, we shuffled quickly past the toothless, pool cue-weilding locals who had been licking their chops in anticipation of biting us.

The place next door was equally scary though darker and less populated; I turned on my heel and retreated out the door faster than I came in. Strangely, our third option was an upscale cafe with prosciutto panini, espresso, and mysteriously categorized female-themed greeting cards (diet humor, chocolate humor, fat humor, shopping humor). We ate quickly, eyes on the clock for fear we might miss the ferry back to Seattle and be stranded in Bremerton longer than necessary, which at this point was an hour. With a few minutes to kill, we walked along the boardwalk, which was so sad and barren under construction, each recycling bin and garbage can plastered with a plaque dedicating it to a lost naval officer.

Upon the all-aboard call, we secured our spot at the back so we could watch the seagulls spiral in the wind pockets created as the boat sliced through the air. The gulls were playing on their wings, digging the free ride and rejoicing in their own flight, swooping and spinning, diving, catching a gust and riding it up then plunging down to the water and skipping sideways, climbing back up -- a dozen of them, synchronized swimming, dancing above the wake. A fistful of little kids started throwing bread to them, and they spun at inspired angles to catch the treats midair. Soon they were so fat they couldn't fly and dropped off down to the Sound to digest. Except for one gull who stayed lofted long enough to take a giant crap on some teenager's head, much to the boy's horror and his friends' amusement.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull smiled.

White girl got a sunburn.

What a perfect day.