Love Anyways

I sit on a cooler at Cook Inlet, where the Kenai River meets the sea, waiting to see someone drag a salmon back to shore, needing motivation to jump back in the early morning waves with my waders and five foot net on a ten foot pole.

A woman walks past with a sweatshirt that says: Love Anyways.

"I like your sweatshirt," I say.

She smiles, "Thanks!"

"Its a great message--love and hope, its all we can do."

"So true," she says, before making her way down the beach filled with a diverse smattering of Alaskans united in this annual subsistence harvest of red salmon.

We wondered if the city of Kenai would close dipnetting this year with Covid-19,  but the fish still swim despite the pandemic, despite our human doings and failings the salmon return upriver to spawn.

Nick and I came without our children, to be safe they stayed with Nick's parents and we received a proxy to fish for Bruce and Kathy too. We packed masks along with our nets and chose to trudge through the mudflats at low tide to reach the channel instead of joining the crowd at the mouth of the river.

When we run into friends from Anchorage we don't hug them hello but share greetings and stories from six-feet apart.

Strange times indeed.

But when the first salmon hits my net, its just like it always is, pure adrenaline and mystery and awe and gratitude for the alignment of the fish's trajectory and mine.

Thank you, thank you, I say silently before landing my bonker on it's head and slitting its gills with my finger.

I needed this return to traditions, to salt and sand and squawking seagulls who fight over the fish heads and guts thrown to the water's edge.

When our familiar routines get ransacked and uncertainty clings to my skin, the best balm I know is to return to the gardens, the mountains, the sea. To unplug completely and focus on the light on the water, the way the clouds move across the sky, the raindrops on burnt orange Lilies blooming alongside Golden Globe.

To get my hands dirty with soil and sweat and the shiny silver scales of salmon.

Through the love and generosity of my in-laws, Nick and I just enjoyed a full week without children; one that included two days backpacking at Reeds Lakes in Hatcher's Pass, three nights at home packing and unpacking and tending plants, and two nights camped on North Beach of the Kenai fishing for Reds.

The last time we experienced a week without children I lay in bed for hours on end pregnant with Elias, our son who turns seventeen next year, not a very romantic or adventurous time when I couldn't even fetch myself a glass of water.

No standing in a frigid ocean fighting to hold a net upright against a current strong enough to cause a swimmer to need a boat rescue before he headed out to sea. A full body workout that left me with barely enough strength to flip the net when a fish swam into it, often losing the bigger ones before landing them on shore.

Love anyways-- even when staring down at an empty net after a hard fought struggle. Even when everyone seems to be catching fish but you. Even when it rains and the wind blows a hint of winter through your summer-loving soul. Even when the country you call home seems on a downward slide to dark depths you can't quite fathom. Love anyways.

You are so lucky to be here.

You are here.

We debated spending an additional night on the beach on Tuesday, instead of driving home to sleep in our own beds before the kids and grandparents returned on Wednesday. The fair weather returned and I love the late evening sunsets on the water but with more rain predicted for Wednesday and our coolers filled with 58 salmon, we opted to haul our gear off the beach that evening, even as we saw fish jumping out in the bay.

About a half hour outside Seward first Nick's phone then mine made an awful loud beeping noise. "Whats going on?"

Tsunami warning.

An earthquake out at sea put all of the Kenai Peninsula on alert, at first, until NOAA  narrowed down the impacted area and cleared Resurrection Bay, Seward, and our home on Lowell Pt. We drove into town as a line of campers and trailers drove out, unaware that we were not at risk.

After questioning our decision to leave the beach on a beautiful evening earlier in the drive, I thanked the universe for this choice, that we weren't trying to pack up in haste and haul our fish with the throngs of others worried about a giant wave.

We found cars parked along our driveway, the highest place on Lowell Point and found ourselves the bearers of good news: There is no risk to Seward, we are all clear...

Friends from Anchorage and town reached out to us offering home sanctuaries and love for what turned out to just be a reminder of the earth's ever changing crust.

No big wave came--but there will be more in the form of pandemics, losses, protests, failures, politics, wars, heartbreak, and environmental shifts.

Love anyways, love anyways...Love. Anyways.

Comments

[Greta]

I read to check and make sure all is ok. Good to hear that you're clear of tsunami danger. Thought of you right away.

All to say is love, love, love. Yes, we are so lucky to be here. How many times I pray that every one of us can see, hear, touch, smell, taste and connect with the beauty that you describe. The force of the water that can topple and swallow a human, but also delivers salmon into your net. A primitive sustenance during a primal viral raid on our species. A cross over from the earth that feeds and devours. Love anyways.

[Kate]

Glad for your update. So grateful you got that time away. Yes love anyways. That’s all we can do. Love to you and your family.

[Christy]

So much love to you Greta and Kate--thank you for your ongoing support!!!