Fine comforts.

When do we become aware that we are creatures of comfort? I am certain it is well into our twenties or thirties. When we are young, we take for granted the running water in our homes, our own bed, food on the table, and the freedom to run and play outside. As we leave home for a higher education, we even take that for granted, perhaps not realizing the sacrifices others make for us in terms of financial burdens. When comfort, or the lack thereof, really comes into focus is when we are responsible for our own comfort. In those early years of fending for ourselves, we give ourselves comforts as we can afford them. Gradually, we become more adept at providing for ourselves, and we sometimes go over board in the comfort area, once again becoming slightly immune to our fortune of having comforts.

And then we come full circle when we realize that our creature comforts really aren’t that numberous. We need shelter and food and water. Whatever else we choose to bring into our lives, really, becomes the finer comforts that we have learned to appreciate over time. A bouquet of flowers. Silver to grace the luncheon buffet. Crystal, given a semblance of warmth with the glow of candlelight. The greatest comfort is knowing that the finest comfort is not these things, but the dear friends and family that complete the picture.

The constant ocean.

When I am away from home there are quite a few things I miss. The fresh, salty air of living in a seaside community. The oft-times starkness of the mountains rising out of the sea. Being able to keep track of the traffic at the airport because more often than not, I hear the planes landing and departing; turbo props, not jets. The background noise of gulls, ravens, eagles, geese, oyster catchers, and a dozen species of ducks. The thrum of boat engines leaving the harbor. The wild sound of the Aleutian winds.

At the top of my list is the constant sound of the ocean. My house sits on a natural spit of land fronted by Iliuliuk Bay which is fed by the Bering Sea. Even on a calm day there is the little slap of waves on the beach. As the seas get bigger, the sound of rolling pebbles and rocks being pulled by departing waves is quite satisfying. But the best is when it is really blowing from the north and the waves are pounding the shore like a big bass drum. That is the time when the waves are so constant and so powerful that they shake the shore and the land, the very air that we breath, and my soul.

On the spur of the moment

My friend Zoya, who is a crazed walker and runner, called just as I was getting ready to take my husband some lunch at work. The wind was muffling her voice so I knew she was outside. She says “I am out at Priest Rock (I know she means Little Priest Rock) and there are so many seals sitting on the rocks, about 12 of them. I’ve never seen so many together and they are so big.” I verify that they are seals and not sea lions. “Oh no, they are seals and they are so fat. You should come take some pictures.” (And you have to read this with an Armenian accent, by the way.)

By the time I got out there after going all the way over to airport to drop off lunch, they had decreased in numbers to about 9. But they were so roly poly fat. And all different colors. Just basking away the afternoon in the winter sun; sharing space with Emperor geese who were grazing in the near shore waters.

There is nothing better than being able to drive out Summer Bay road in January. Typically we are unable to drive it past November due to snow and avalanches.