Cousin Lars (July 6, 1977 – June 14, 2015)

A salmon plug mobile above your crib.

Cousins. Karla Peters & Lars Peters.

In the backpack you rode, down the side of a blue mountain.

The tent, with floor of hay, under your feet.

Later, a boat. Another home.

Chipmunk hunting.

School. How smart you are, the kids said.

Conversations of presidents, democracy, history…

Friends found you. Near and far.

You stayed with us one night. On a boat.

Life was complicated then. You had made a friend.

Someone with differences, too, who accepted you for you.

The bird feeder you made us for Christmas one year, when you were younger. Came from the heart.

Such a kind heart. A beautiful heart.

When the birds come, into the yard, I think of you.

The birds are in the yard. All the time.

Flying free.

RIP Lars Peters

Gentle reader, I invite you to join me in taking the stigma free pledge – see the person, not the illness – replace stigma with hope – click on:

http://www.nami.org

Uncle Dave ( June 5, 1946 – January 30, 2015)

Uncle Dave (June 5, 1946 – January 30, 2015)

I miss my Uncle Dave.

He gave me so much. I believe the most powerful lesson he taught me is that people, including men, can change. He changed himself. Giving up drinking and choosing a journey towards healing that goes along with that.

He came to the  baby presentation of my firstborn. Eighteen years ago now. To see his great-grand niece. He drove clean over to the Olympic Peninsula from Seattle and bounded into the house full of life and energy. He was the first guest, out of dozens, to arrive that day. Uncle Dave took one look at the punch bowl set up on the table and said, “I won’t have any of that if there is booze in there. I quit drinking”. My husband and I laughed as we had too. There was no booze in that bowl and all three of us had some of that punch and celebrated life together.

Toward the end of his life, my Uncle Dave dealt with much pain. Cancer can be cruel like that. Even so, Uncle Dave was adamant about maintaining his sobriety.

It is a comfort to know that at the very end, he was pain-free. My mother told me that. She was there.

I remember Uncle Dave, the last time I saw him, standing in front of the doorway to his Sequim home, barefoot and wearing a Carhartt T-shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. He looked tanned, fit, and had been obviously working in his yard. He invited me in for a visit and I declined because, I told him, I had Cub Scouts in the van and I needed to get them to a meeting. He mentioned maybe we could get together for a BBQ. We agreed that would be good. Then, I told him what I was there to say.

I told my Uncle Dave that I was grateful that he was part of my life. I thanked him for being a role model for my son. He laughed that off saying he didn’t know about that. He told me he did not think he was much of a role model. I respectfully, in that moment, disagreed with him.

The old Lionel train set he gave our family for Christmas, the last Winter his mother was alive, has been  brought upstairs. I will never forget the Christmas card he wrote us and how he read it out-loud to us that day, about how that train was a big part of his childhood. He wrote about how every Christmas and birthday a new train car or railway piece was added. He wrote how proud he and his father were to work on that train together. That train was a big part of the Brueckner family tradition.

Uncle Dave celebrating Christmas at Grandma Brueckner’s house in 2012

 

It became a tradition in our family, to have Uncle Dave check out a car or truck before it was purchased. He was a master mechanic. The other day, when I heard my husband start up our 1972 Ford F-250 truck, I felt Uncle Dave was near, in spirit. He listened closely to that balanced 390 engine before we bought the truck. Took it for a drive with us. He did not really tell us whether to buy it or not. Just mentioned if he were us he wouldn’t worry too much about the gas prices and maybe to put a theft alarm on it. So, of course, we bought it.

Uncle Dave was a Ford man, a Chevy man, a Buick man, a Pontiac man…a man’s man. He loved mechanical things, all kinds of cars and trucks.

Uncle Dave enjoyed showing our boy some of his rigs. A Corvette amongst others. Immaculately maintained.

He showed our family his nurturing side. It was there all along and showed in the kind things he did for his family when his girls were growing up. I remember him  keeping the property maintained at the “Lake House” out at Lake Sutherland.

I remember when he put power brakes and power steering in my grandfather’s cherished red Ford Ranchero.

It must have taken a great deal of courage for Uncle Dave to give up drinking. Just as he was able to rebuild cars, to make them better, he rebuilt himself. He more fully embraced his nurturing side.

I watched Uncle Dave buckle two very large teddy bears into the back seat of his Cadillac on the last evening that the Brueckner clan gathered at the home his parents had built in Port Angeles. He had given the two teddy bears to his twin grand-daughters. When  I made a comment about him putting safety belts on the bears, Uncle Dave said it was because he wanted to show the girls that it was important to be safe. It was easy to see how delighted he was to be a grandfather.

I think it touched Uncle Dave, also, to have a grandson who will also carry on the Brueckner name. One of his favorite phrases in recent years was, “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“A work in progress”, Uncle Dave described himself often followed by the words of, “Giving back”.

The legacy my Uncle Dave has left our family is the importance of “Giving Back”.

In order to give back, fully, requires forgiveness. So Uncle Dave left us with that legacy also.

It is hard. Forgiving him for leaving us. For leaving us too soon.

Uncle Dave became a role model for my son. He will be remembered for his strong work ethic and caring for others. In giving up drinking, he had discovered a path toward being more present and whole.

Whole. That is how I remember him. He was a true gentleman.

RIP Unce Dave

 

The Saint Jude Goes Home

Last night I dreamt that my husband drowned.

In fact, about the time I had the dream, my husband was skippering the Saint Jude somewhere off of the Washington coast in the dead of night. Solo. Al and I had driven our van down to Astoria two days before. Stayed two nights in a nice hotel overlooking the Columbia River. Waiting. Waiting…

For better weather.

The first look we had at our boat was with a mixture of pride and some sadness. She has new battle scars on the starboard side. Scratches from a cleat that had broke off the dock in a storm a couple months before. The Port of Astoria harbor master had called with the news. After that incident, the boat had been moved to a berth right in from of the harbor office. Waiting…waiting…to go home.

The Saint Jude leaving Astoria, Oregon to cross the Columbia River Bar on her way to Port Angeles, Washington on January 12, 2015

Winter can be a tough time to get a small fishing boat up the coast. From Astoria, Oregon to Port Angeles, Washington

In Winter storms, weather buoys break their moorings and get washed ashore. Wind can come up unexpectedly. For the Saint Jude, it is about a 28 hour run, depending on wind, tides, and currents. Straight through without stopping.

My job is to take care of the kids at home. Try not to show the anxiety. It showed up in my sleep.

Our kids

Shaking off the dream of a drowned husband I got out of bed this morning and checked for text messages from my man, the skipper of the Saint Jude. There were none. Then a bit later, in real time, one appears.

Him: At Tatoosh (with a time stamp of 6:44 AM).

Me:  (immensely grateful my husband is alive!) Did you sleep?

Him:  Slowed down and ran 5 knots for 2 1/2 hours off of LaPush. Out deep without having to drift in trough. Cat napped. With radar watch alarm set. South current pushed the  boat along at 1200 rpm.

At this point, my husband has been at the wheel for 19 hours. He untied the Saint Jude from the dock at the Port of Astoria about noon the day before (January 12, 2015).  

Him: See the lights of Neah Bay

Me:  Are u planning to sleep more once in the strait? Anchored I mean?

Him: Have flood tide till 9 am.

Me:  What I mean is do u plan to sleep anchored  somewhere?

Him: Bucking E wind here a bit. I will let you know after listening to Canadian Wx for strait.

Me: Okay, are u inside the strait yet?

Him: Yes.

Me: Good!  Can u send some morning photos  – our fans will love those!

Him:  Wind in strait increasing 20 after noon. I will keep coming and take some pics.

Me:  I see. ETA to PA?

Him:  S.E. winds increasing today off S coast Vancouver Island. E 8 this morning at Race Rocks. Making 8 knots with current now, ETA around 2 PM.

Me:  Yes. Photos of Sunrise?

Him:  Probably closer to 3. Will take sunrise pics when it gets here.

Me:  Okay. I will come to PA when Cody gets out of school.

Him:  U.S. Wx calls for light E winds in straight. Canadian Wx has gale warnings on S coast this morning. Will see you and Cody after school.

Me:  Yeah – we know how to pick our weather windows don’t we?

Him:  Yes. We do.

Photos from the boat follow. Images of the radar and the depth sounder. Slightly blurry because it is still dark in the wheelhouse. Still, the image on the radar clearly shows the outline of the breakwater in front of the Makah Marina. A photo  is sent that was taken right around day break. It a a darker image and I ask my husband if it is Waadah Island.

Him:  Must be big lings on the sounder back there.

Me: Oh, Seal Rock!

The meaning is rich. Seal Rock is at the mouth of the Sail River, near Neah Bay, Washington. The site where my paternal grandparents, Willard and Hazel Peters, owned a fishing resort from the 1940’s to the mid-1970’s. One gorgeous summer day, I caught my first fish on my own – a ling cod – off of the end of a floating dock there. King Salmon were weighed at the base of that dock by sportsmen from all over the country. It is one of my earliest memories of life. King Salmon.

Several more photos follow. Sail Rock. Propeller wash from the stern.

No more words.

I take my son to school. Return home to start laundry, make the bed, and wash the dishes. To care for the six family pets. To write.

My daughter comes home from school  and I tell her that her dad will be home this evening. That we need to be very kind as he will be very tired. I tell her it is dangerous to bring a boat home from the Columbia River, the Graveyard of the Pacific, to Port Angeles in Winter. It is a calculated risk. One that was instigated by the skipper of the Saint Jude having a tooth break below the gum line while on the tuna grounds in September. I tell her it would have been even more dangerous for a skipper to drive a boat with an abscessed tooth. So the Saint Jude stayed put in Astoria while her skipper waited for his tooth to be pulled and the infection to clear. By then, Winter storms were back to back with only tiny weather windows. I tell my daughter that her father beat a gale.

It is close to noon. 24 hours since the Saint Jude left the Port of Astoria yesterday afternoon.

Her skipper will be very tired when he gets to the dock today. When I pick him up, I will help him check the tie-up lines. Make sure the power cord is secure. Make sure the electrical panel switches are off. That the radios are off. That the battery switch is in the proper position. That the auto pilot, radar and fathometer are off. Make sure that the heat lamp is on.

My son will be with me. A third generation salmon troller. I will explain to  him, as I did my daughter, why we brought the boat up from Astoria, in the middle of Winter for Spring boat work. I will tell him that it is so his father can spend more time with the family while he works on the boat. It is so his dad can be home to watch him crossing over from being a Cub Scout to being a Boy Scout. It is so he can be at home when our son works on his go-cart project that will help him earn a Supernova award in Cub Scouts.  It is so our son can see the boat work getting done, to help paint the bottom, to maybe be on hand when the zincs get welded. He has the fishing in his bones, our son does.  Some boat kids do. Like me. Having the boat home soothes my soul.

Commercial fishing is not the kind of profession that is taught in a classroom or from a textbook. Time at the boat yard and on the ocean is the best way to learn about boats…and fishing. Our son’s education, in the ways of the sea, has begun. As our daughter’s high school education is ending. She will graduate this Spring. Both of her parents will be nearby as she gets ready for the next major transition in her life. Truth is, I asked my husband to bring the boat home. For our family, for all of us. Our favorite welder has already been contacted about the scratches on the Starboard side of the Saint Jude. He has reassured us that it can all be fixed. We are already pre-scheduled to have work done on the stiff arms and to have the repaired generator put back in the engine room.

The Saint Jude will have the best of care. She is part of our family. It will be good to have her home.

At 1:25 PM another text appears.

Him: Am 2 hours out from Ediz Hook Bouy, 12 miles out.

Me:  Awesome!

Him:  Love u.

Me:  Love you too. More photos follow from the boat.

Him:  That is Tongue Point.

Me:  Thank-you for bringing our boat home.

Him:  Thank you and Kendra and Cody. And the Glass Family.

Note: While Al and I were in Astoria waiting for a good weather window so Al could get the boat home, our son stayed two nights with the Glass family. They took him to see a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter at the Coast Guard air station on Ediz Hook and texted photos to of us of our son in the pilot’s seat, grinning from ear to ear.  Zach Glass is a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter pilot and we are eternally grateful to he and his family for his service.

O, God, Thy Sea Is So Great And My Boat Is So Small – Breton Fisherman’s Prayer

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