Читать книгу The Ship, the Saint, and the Sailor - Bradley G. Stevens - Страница 13

CHAPTER 6

A VISIT TO

MONK’S LAGOON

AUGUST 2002: ON A LATE summer morning, I set off in a kayak from what we now call Miller Point, at Fort Abercrombie State Park, at the northeast end of Kodiak Island. My wife, Meri, and my twelve-year-old daughter, Cailey, accompanied me in a double kayak. During WWII, Fort Abercrombie held the location of two 8-inch guns, put there to protect the Navy base at Womens Bay, 10 miles to the south. The guns were originally battleship guns and were installed on top of special rotating carriages, on top of a 100-foot-high bluff looking out over Monashka Bay. The guns were never fired, and after the war they were destroyed in place. Now, a military museum occupied what was once the ammunition battery. But if you stood where the gun emplacements were, you could look out across 4 miles of open ocean to Spruce Island and see the entrance to Icon Bay along with some islands. On one of those islands, Arkhimandritov had stood to take his bearing on the Kad’yak over 140 years ago. That was our destination.

Paddling a kayak in the open ocean is always a dangerous activity, whether you are 2 miles or 200 feet from shore. Anything can happen, and you need to take precautions. I had never gone kayaking before coming to Kodiak, but Meri was an experienced kayaker and had introduced me to the sport. Every summer we used to make day trips or overnight camping trips in our kayaks. After Cailey came into our lives, those trips became shorter and less frequent, but by the age of five or six, Cailey had her own life jacket and a toy paddle. Now, at the age of twelve, she was capable of handling a standard paddle and doing half of the work in a double kayak.

The kayaks were stuffed to the gills with camping gear: a tent, three sleeping bags, foam mattresses, a camp stove and cooking gear, food for four or five days (because you never know how long you will need to stay), and a first aid kit, plus fishing rods and cameras. Sitting in the kayaks, we were completely covered by spray skirts that hung over our shoulders and snugged up around the edge of the cockpit. We all wore life vests, each one of which carried a whistle and strobe light. In addition, I carried a VHF radio and an emergency position indicating locator beacon, or EPIRB, strapped to the outside of my kayak.

Paddling at about 2 miles per hour, our journey should take us two to three hours to cross the open channel between Kodiak and Spruce Island, depending on winds and currents. The day was partly overcast and there was a light wind from the southeast. Although there was little surface chop, a gentle 2- to 3-foot swell rolled underneath us. We paddled with a steady rhythm, stroking on one side then the other, rotating the paddle in our wrists to get the correct angle and keeping the blades close to the water so they would not drip onto us. With little to focus on except the waves, you could drift into a zenlike state and forget all about regular life, work, and all its associated stresses.

Ten years earlier, I had made this trip with a group of friends. Humpback whales were feeding in the channel then, so we had paddled over for a closer look. For a few minutes the whales were all underwater, so we stopped paddling to see where they would surface. Suddenly, one came up about 100 feet from me, heading straight in my direction, like a freight train bearing down on my kayak. I paddled as fast as I could to get out of the way. But the whale also changed course too and came up again, this time closer to me. I tried paddling away, but it was too late. About 30 feet from my kayak the whale dove, turning his body vertically in the water and raising his flukes up in the air before sinking beneath the waves. The flukes were as wide as my kayak was long, and I felt the water splashing off them. Before I knew it, the whale sounded and glided beneath me. I was stunned. It was an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime encounter, and few would have believed it if it hadn’t been photographed by another kayaker downwind from me, who later gave me a copy of the photo.

Getting “fluked” as a humpback whale dives beneath my kayak.

I thought about that experience now as I paddled and wondered if we would see more whales. I didn’t really want to get that close to them again, especially with my family in tow. For most of the trip we kept the kayaks within a few yards of each other, but sometimes we would separate a little farther if one of us took a break from paddling. Occasionally, a swell came up between us, and all I could see was Meri’s head above the water as her kayak settled into the trough on the other side of the wave. But it didn’t worry me because the water and wind were fair. The middle of the channel was over 600 feet deep. I know, because I had spent a week cruising the bottom of it in the Delta back in 1991. As we got closer to Spruce Island and the water shallowed, the swells died down and a light chop arose. About a mile from Spruce Island, Meri woke me out of my paddling rhythm.

“What’s a rock doing out here in the middle of the channel?” she asked. “And why is it moving?” I looked to my left where she was pointing and saw a gray pyramid rising from the water. It was indeed moving at the same speed we were.

“That’s no rock,” I said. “That’s a shark.”

A second later both Meri and Cailey were holding their paddles over their heads and shrieking.

“Stop screaming,” I shouted, adding to the din. “It’s not going to attack us. Put your paddles in the water and start paddling.”

They took off so fast I could almost see a rooster tail rising from the back of their kayak. I stifled a laugh. Then the shark began circling closer and cruised by just 6 feet away from my kayak, or at least it seemed that close. I could see that it was a salmon shark, her deep black eye looking right at me. It was a female, I knew, because only females come to Kodiak in order to feed on salmon returning to the streams to spawn. The males all stayed down in Washington or California somewhere, hanging around an offshore bar, the lazy bums. Salmon sharks came every summer and were commonly seen in Monashka Bay, near where we started our journey, because a small stream that empties into it has a strong run of pink and silver salmon. There weren’t many salmon in the middle of the channel though, so the shark must have been attracted by the noise of our paddles. Deciding that I wasn’t on her menu, she soon disappeared.

Meri and Cailey had entered the maze of little islets protecting Icon Bay from the ocean swells and were hunkered down in a cove, waiting for me. Happy to see that I was still in one piece, they paddled up to me as we excitedly discussed our amazing encounter for a few minutes before continuing our journey, meandering among the islets and coves until we reached the beach in Monk’s Lagoon. There, we set up camp, made dinner, and built a fire on the beach to roast marshmallows before climbing into our sleeping bags for a well-earned rest.

The land around Monk’s Lagoon is owned by the Ouzinkie Native Corporation and is part of the village of Ouzinkie, about 5 miles up the channel from Icon Bay. The word Ouzinkie is Russian for “narrow,” because the channel is narrow, and the village sits at its narrowest point. Although there were several no-trespassing signs around, we had visited Monk’s Lagoon before; it was a common destination for adventurous sightseers, so we didn’t think anyone would mind us camping there as long as we were respectful of the property.

That night, Meri and I both had disturbing dreams. I dreamed that some monks and Natives came to hold a church service, and we were camping right in the middle of their church. Meri dreamed that some local people came to kick us out. Still in the clutches of my dream, I heard a high-pitched droning sound, like that of an outboard engine. A minute later, I realized it was an outboard engine. I jumped out of my sleeping bag, threw on some clothes, and climbed out of the tent. Soon a small skiff pulled up on the beach, and out climbed a local Native and a man dressed like a monk. The latter we had met before; he was part of a group of self-styled monks who had settled in Monk’s Lagoon several years previously. I say self-styled because they were not part of the Alaskan Diocese of the Russian Orthodox Church, to which all the local Natives belonged. Most of the new monks were from California, and we had become friends with several of them. The new monks had built a very nice church or monastery in the woods just behind the beach and had begun to live there. But they had done so without permission from the Ouzinkie Native Corporation and eventually were told to leave. Nonetheless, they had remained on speaking terms with the Natives.

On this day, one of the Natives and one of the monks came to examine the church of Saint Herman, a mile back in the woods. They quizzed us briefly. Did we know what this place was? That it was holy to them? That it was private property? Yes, we answered, of course we knew, and that’s why we had come to see it. We assured them we would respect the place and leave no trace of our visit, and that seemed to reassure them. After all, we were not the first visitors, and more would surely come. In fact, their visit was in preparation for the pilgrimage that would take place in August, a few weeks later. Expecting the arrival of up to a hundred people, they were preparing the church to receive the visitors.

Father (now Saint) Herman had lived and died in a small hut in the woods, several hundred yards up from the beach. One hundred years after his death, in the 1930s, a new church was built farther back in the woods, and Saint Herman’s body was buried beneath it. That church was now over seventy years old and was starting to decay. Its foundation was rotting due to its location in the middle of a rainforest. Because of the condition of the church, Saint Herman’s remains had been moved to Kodiak several years earlier and reburied under a replica of his original church. Over the summer, carpenters and volunteers had come to work on the church in the forest at Monk’s Lagoon. Slowly, they replaced the foundation, the roof, and the siding, and even built a large deck that was able to hold the crowd that would come for the pilgrimage.

After breakfast, we followed the path back into the woods toward the church. Every few yards, we found small wooden plaques with a painting of a saint nailed to a tree by the path. During the pilgrimage, the faithful would stop at each icon for a short prayer. Today we just looked and remarked at the beautiful setting, surrounded by stately spruce trees and enveloped with wet, dripping moss. It was a celebration of green, punctuated periodically by bright red salmonberries. We dallied along the path, picking and eating the ripe, juicy berries until we had our fill. Before reaching the church, we stopped at a spring. Supposedly, Saint Herman had come to drink his water here, and a small shrine now stood at the site, with a metal cup for thirsty travelers to use. We all took a drink, honoring the site.

A small wooden hut and two graves stood nearby. One of the graves was for a man named Father Gerasim, an Orthodox monk who had lived there for a number of years in the early twentieth century. The other belonged to Father Peter Kreta. Father Peter had recently been the priest of the Russian Orthodox Church in Kodiak, following in the footsteps of his father before him, and was much beloved by the church members because he had grown up in Kodiak. A few years ago, he had been stricken with cancer and had died just last year in his early forties, leaving his wife and two young sons. His last request was to be buried near Saint Herman’s church, on Spruce Island. Meri and I had personally known Father Peter and his family, and we were saddened by his death. We paused a few minutes to remember him and then returned to our campsite.

From the beach where we camped, we could look out and see a string of small islands jutting out from the south side of the bay. Most of these would have been here when Arkhimandritov visited in 1860. His journal indicated that he stood on one of them when he took a bearing to the Kad’yak. When I looked at the chart, it seemed that he could have been writing about the easternmost one, the third island. But I could not see it from the beach. In fact, it looked like just a pile of rocks, barely visible at low tide and almost completely submerged at high tide. I realized then that he must have been standing on an islet to the west of it, the second island from shore, that was slightly larger and had grass growing on it. It was right next to the first, larger islet that rose up from the water in a steep cliff, about fifty feet high. During the great earthquake of 1964, this part of Kodiak sank up to 6 feet, but since that time, it has rebounded slightly every time an earthquake occurs (such as the 7.0 temblor that had occurred in January of 2002). Was it possible that the third, smallest islet had been above water when Arkhimandritov visited it? Or that the second island had broken off from the first during the great earthquake? What other changes had occurred?

Monk’s Lagoon, as seen from the shoreline during the kayak trip in 2002.

That afternoon, we got into our kayaks and paddled around to the north side of Spruce Island, around East Point, and through a narrow, shallow channel over some rocky reefs. We pulled into a cove to have lunch on the beach. We had planned to go farther, but the weather forecast was starting to worry me. It was calling for 15- to 25-knot winds that evening and overnight with rain. That was not a good sign, so we decided to head back to camp. We came around East Point directly into the wind, which was now blowing about 20 knots—too windy for kayaking with a twelve-year-old. The quickest way back was to go through the channel out into the middle of the bay and across it, but that would expose us to the full force of the wind. Worse yet, the wind would be at our backs, which was dangerous because we wouldn’t see the waves coming at us and could easily be turned sideways and rolled over.

After weighing the options, I decided on a slightly longer but safer course, following the shoreline inside of the kelp beds and rocky reefs. At one point we had to pass through a narrow break in the rocks, where swells were washing through. Timing our passage carefully, we waited for a swell to pass. Then we paddled rapidly into the cleft; as we did so, the next swell lifted us up and pushed us through. It was exhilarating but scary, like surfing. In truth it wasn’t that dangerous, but having my daughter along on this trip made everything much more terrifying. I could expose myself to certain calculated risks, but I was not willing to do it with her along. That evening the rain started, so we retreated to our tent early. All night the wind blew and rain beat on the tent, and I found it difficult to sleep, finally dozing off in the wee hours.

That night I had the strangest dream. I was walking on a beach, with the ocean on my left and a forest to my right. Ahead of me, I could see something like a large skeleton, maybe the ribs of a whale, sticking up out of the sand. I walked toward them for a while, but they didn’t seem to get any closer. Then an old woman came out of the woods. She was dressed in a nondescript sort of tunic and wore a shawl over her head. Was she young or old? I couldn’t tell. She walked up to me and stood between me and the object of my interest, whatever it was. Then she pointed at me and began talking in a language I did not understand. I listened for a minute, uncomprehending, and finally I walked past her, only to discover that the structure had vanished. Where did it go and what had it been? Was it a whale skeleton? Or maybe the ribs of a ship? Who was the woman? I turned around to look, but she was gone. I woke up in wonder. What did it mean?

Daylight comes early in the Alaskan summer, so by six I was up and making breakfast. We ate quickly and packed up our camp, stuffing the wet tent and other items into the kayaks. It had stopped raining and the wind had come down, but the waves crashing on the beach still troubled me. Half an hour later we were out in the channel, and the water was surprisingly calm. The storm had mostly blown itself out, and we had to paddle through some small chop, but the swells had lain down. After a while, I began to relax. The rest of the trip was delightful, and several hours later we paddled up onto the beach behind Miller Point, tired but relieved that our journey was finished.

Afterwards, I thought about our visit to Monk’s Lagoon. I wasn’t a religious person; I didn’t attend church, and I certainly didn’t have any leanings toward Russian Orthodoxy. But I believed that I was a spiritual person, and that being so didn’t require me to be religious. If anything, I worshiped nature. The power, the beauty, and the inspiration I find in nature seemed to be the same thing most people find in God. And Monk’s Lagoon was a spiritual place. For some, it was because of Saint Herman and what he did there. For me, it was because of the beauty of the surroundings and the incredible experiences I have had there. What it meant to Arkhimandritov, I cannot guess, but he probably saw it as a reminder of a bad experience. Nonetheless, having been there, I felt more connected to it. It gave me dreams. It spoke to me. It told me the Kad’yak was there and that I had to find it. But not this year.

The shoreline in Monk’s Lagoon (Icon Bay), as seen from the Big Valley. The church was built on Ouzinkie Native Corporation land by the “new” monks, who were later forced to leave.