The
Coolest Guy You Know…
By, Andrew J. Smith
I
order the Alaskan Summer, the one with the Orca on the tap. My heart is still
beating like I ran a marathon and my smile huge with sweet, yet unimportant
secrecy. The sun is high in the sky and soft white clouds float by the window
like airborne cotton candy.
The
saloon I am sitting in is full of tourists, and I can’t help but smile a bit
bigger remembering why this very spot was even more popular over a hundred
years ago…
The Red Onion
Saloon, as it is now named, has been in operation as a pub for years, but
during its early history, the upstairs also served as a brothel. And to their
credit, the owners are not shy about it. In fact, they not only embrace, but
also revel in their history. Each bartender is a busty, young girl, clad in a
Can-Can skirt and black corset. In addition to serving libations and
flirtations, they also give tours of the upstairs “hotel rooms,” which
conveniently only fit a bed, a washbasin, and unsavory thoughts. I enjoy coming
here to see all the 75 year-old tourists posing next to the “brothel this way” signs. They all snap
photos in a “come hither” pose that makes me want to “go yonder.”
I’m
reflecting on the charm of it all, and basking in my recent accomplishment when
the cute, young female bartender drops the luscious Summer Ale in front of me.
“Here
ya go hun.”
“Thanks
so much,” I say as I slip a $5 bill to her. I motion for her to keep the $1.50
change, as I bring the etched glass of Alaskan nectar to my lips. Just before I
sip, I say a silent cheers.
“To
the coolest guy you know.”
I settle into the carved wooden stool,
softened and worn by a century of posteriors, and drink deep. I fight to keep
the precious liquid from oozing over the corners of my lips as I smile too big,
proud of my new title.
I’m
staring off, barely paying attention when Bob yells over to me...
“Is
it good?”
He
rips me from my mental purgatory, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s
asking about. “Uh, yeah. That is a good 8, Bob. Larry, you’re shot!”
I
am 11 stories in the air, on a 30,000 ton, 592 foot long ship...refereeing a
shuffleboard contest.
I
believe I am the only person in the world who can say that right now. And I’m
not bragging.
For
the last month, I have been working as Entertainment staff aboard this vessel.
This means that in addition to performing in the production shows at night, I
also host events, run evening trivia games, help usher people through
immigration, and any other thing of that sort at the discretion of my
superiors: the Cruise Director and General Manager. Essentially, I have signed
on to also be a camp counselor for seniors, and not the high school kind. It’s
not a bad job, in fact most people would kill for this gig, but the continued
interaction with Millionaires who may not be around tomorrow, and want you to
know that, has a way of making anyone a bit morbid.
“That
looks like it’s on the line, guy. I don’t think that counts,” shouts Larry, who
has glasses so thick, I’m sure he hasn’t had 20/20 vision since reading Moses
bedtime stories.
“Trust
me, Larry. It’s in. But now it’s your turn, and I know you’ve got this!” I try to keep everyone appeased and enthused,
but realize the most exciting prospect for these gentlemen is the thought of
reading their own obituary.
Larry
mumbles as he laboriously pushes the 4-gram shuffle puck halfway down the
court, but I barely notice. You see we are docked in Skagway, Alaska. We have
been cruising around the inner passage and coast of Alaska the last three
weeks, and I am continually struck by its majestic beauty. Thus far today, I
have been forced to solely admire from afar since I am scheduled to babysit...I
mean, run activities aboard the ship. But, once Larry and Bob finish fighting
to the death, which sounds much more exciting than the literal situation, I am
free!
________________________________________________________________________
Skagway
is a visually stunning town at the northern most tip of the Alaskan inside
passage, and borders Canada. Stepping out of the Red Onion Saloon, I feel as if I am back in the 1840’s. The dirt
main road has seen more horses and huskies than cars in the last 170 years. The
facades of the houses and shops on this quaint, three block main street have no
doubt seen countless numbers of gun fights, drunks, and outlaws, and that was
just last weekend. I check my chin for a 12-inch beard and my hip for a six-shooter,
but unfortunately, find neither...
I
begin to walk down the main street with a slight purpose, though I have none. I
just don’t want any of the numerous tourists (read - cruise ship guests) to
stop and ask me questions about this morning’s Ping-Pong challenge. Little do
they know I have accomplished something only the roughest, toughest wilderness
pioneers could dream of. And I don’t even have a beard...yet.
________________________________________________________________________
I
basically skip down the I-95 towards the ship’s gangway, though I feel like I’m
floating on euphoria. The I-95 is located on the 3rd deck of our eleven-deck
ship. It gets its name from the paperwork all foreign crewmembers must carry
when exiting the ship. This is the thruway for all the ships activity that must
remain out of sight of passengers, and also where most crewmembers live. People
are constantly traveling the entire length of the ship on this submerged highway,
and everyone I pass reads the excitement on my face.
You know how when food is spoiled, you can
tell the second you get a sniff? Well the exact opposite is true in Alaska. One
breath of the cool, crisp air and you know it is as fresh and untainted as the
purest substance in the world.
My
foot touches the dock and I immediately feel 20 pounds lighter. Maybe it’s the
salubrious air, or just the fact that I’ve managed to escape the confines of my
floating home.
It
is my first time in Skagway, and I have admired the views all day. Snow capped
mountains reach so high they seem to be God’s white ottomans. They completely
surround this beautiful oasis of greenest greens and bluest blues. The water is
so clear you can watch the humpbacks descend for 30 feet before they dive too
deep. Although I know it’s salt water, nothing has looked more satiating than
the dark cobalt blue ocean with pristine, turquoise/white chunks of glacial ice
floating by. As an avid outdoorsman, this is a paradise to me.
It
is August, and the long winter is whispering its presence with a slight breeze
that makes a track jacket a necessity in the shade of 200 ft. tall pines. In
the sun, however, it is still summer and the rays seem to warm the soul as much
as the skin. I saunter down the dock, along side the original lifeline of this
city; the old train tracks. With each step I scan the edge of the vast
wilderness for wildlife - moose, deer, bear. I yearn to catch a glimpse of one,
any of them, though have yet to figure out how to react once I do. Either a
battle cry before I skin and eat it, a few kind words as I try to pet it, or a
battle cry before it skins and eats me. Either way, surprisingly, I feel
mentally prepared for any of those options...
________________________________________________________________________
After meandering for a while down the dusty
main avenue, I see a local liquor store with a sign on the window that marks a
first in my life. It reads:
“Closed. Gone Moose huntin’. Will be
back Monday (it’s Thursday). If you
need any liquor, see Paul in the Post Office.”
I stare, reading and rereading this
sign. I love it, for so many reasons:
First off, his personal life is important
enough that he chooses to close his shop when he has a ship of 1000 passengers
and crew, all looking to buy any and everything, especially liquor.
Secondly, he lets us know why he has
chosen to close up shop.
Thirdly, that reason is “Moose Huntin’.”
Fourthly, he gives us the benefit of
letting us know when to expect his return.
Fifthly, should we still need liquor,
even without his assistance, he tells us where to find it.
And lastly, that Paul, the secondary liquor
peddler, also works at the post office.
In a strange way, this sign helped me
fall even deeper in love with Alaska. There’s a different mentality up here. We
often hear the term “Island time” or “Island life,” which refers to the pace
and priority of Caribbean and Polynesian people, but I can attest that Alaskans
have a certain priority attitude to life as well. Certain things just aren’t as
important here. For island folk, it’s a slower pace so as not to over heat,
over excite or over worry. In a life with almost innumerable natural deadlines;
growing seasons, reindeer migrations, salmon runs, that will affect survival, Alaskan’s
have a different perception of the importance of paper money. A moose hunt may
literally provide enough food for a family of five for a whole winter, something
that selling 40 bottles of vodka just won’t do. So while I may think it’s crazy
to close a shop when there are hundreds of people who may buy something from
you, I’m sure our liquor store owner thought it would be crazy not to.
Trapped in my own head, pondering the
differences of life and priority in this northern land, I stop abruptly. My
absent-minded stroll had taken me to the edge of town. Before me, there was a
single road with houses dotting the sides every few blocks. A huge, granite-mountain
loomed overhead, and I suddenly felt very small. Even as the Coolest Guy You
Know.
Alaska can do that to you. You feel so
overwhelmed by its intrigue and beauty. You feel so welcomed by its people and brilliance.
But all of a sudden, you realize you may be in over your head. Like the hiker
who absentmindedly follows a deer for half a mile through the woods, then
realizes he has lost his path and left his compass at home. In an instant, a
lapse of attention can result in being lost forever up here.
I peek behind me and see the droves of
tourists moving from store-front to store-front, then look ahead and see the
desolate residential area and monstrous, cold, stone mountain. The choice is
not easy, save for the fact that all my belongings and earnings are residing on
the ship behind those tourists. I silently wish for a deer to follow...
With a sigh and slight shudder, from both
the chill and impending tourists, I turn around and head back to the main
street.
________________________________________________________________________
I
follow the train tracks along the edge of the vast wilderness towards the heart
of the old mining town, which seems to be straight ahead of me, just beyond a
small bridge over a steady mountain stream.
I
could hear them before I could see them. A slurping, splashing buzz coupled
with the rush of the stream. As I approached the bridge and gazed into the
creek below, I saw the stream was more fish than water. That’s when I realized
I was in the midst of the late summer salmon run.
At
first, they looked like elongated rocks, with their dorsal coloring matching
the streambed. Many stayed motionless, save a slight, constant sway of the tail
to kept position against the current, yet some would dart upstream in a
brilliant flash.
I
decided it was time to prove my manhood. I had always said if I were stuck in
the wilderness, I would survive. I had read the books, watched the TV shows,
everything that would lead me to believe survival wasn’t imminent but absolute.
And this was the perfect time to prove at least one aspect of that…
I
found a rock about three feet off the shore, creating an island in the stream. With
a quick, small hop, I landed sure-footedly atop it and squatted down low, right
to the waters edge. I was wearing jeans and an Alaskan windbreaker, which I
felt was very apropos, and both were getting generously wet. I studied the
water below.
It
was full of Salmon, and each had its life as the number one source of
inspiration. None of them were looking to be interrupted from the annual spawn,
let alone caught and killed. I felt like a young Grizzly who had watched its
mother for two years make easy prey of these animals, yet had no idea where to
begin. I took a few errant jabs that resulted in erroneous results. Blank stabs
and therefore, blank fist returned.
Then
I listened.
The
forest was quiet, besides the rushing water. Birds overhead just watched.
Squirrels sat and gazed. Even the salmon themselves took a break to collect
themselves. That’s when I realized I had the wrong approach. You cannot attack
wildlife - not without a gun. You must approach it. Respect it. Ease into interaction. Then, and only then,
will you gain the advantage.
I
remembered my time in Yellowstone Park. My best friend and I hiked into a very
primitive campsite and set up shop. We slept that night, fearing all the things
that go bump, but woke up somewhat energized. We decided to do a perimeter
hike. After a mile or so, we approached a clearing and saw a bit of fur off in
the distance lying in the grass. We slowed our approached, stayed downwind, and
began to sneak towards this animal. Before we knew it, we were a few yards away
from a small pack of wolves. When they noticed us, they immediately sprung to
their feet and trotted off. We continued our walk, but every now and then, for
the next few miles, a single wolf would surprise us up ahead. It seemed the
pack had developed a sudden interest in us, a fact that did not escape me as we
rounded back towards our camp.
Now,
as I stood perched on a stone in the middle of the rushing stream, I decided to
approach the Salmon as I did the wolves, in a slow, calculated, un-assaulting
manner. I put my hand into the water, gently but deliberately. I brushed one,
then another. Each darted off in a shot. Finally, I opened my hand, and slowly
lowered it until I felt the scaly tail of a being about to reproduce and end
its life. When I did, I slowly, calculatingly closed my hand around the tail,
and when I felt secured, I yanked the body from the water and into the air.
We
met eyes and were both stunned. The Salmon could not believe he was in the air,
and I could not believe I had a 15-pound fish in my hand. He obviously
misunderstood me for a hungry bear (which happens more often than you’d think)
and began thrashing, trying to swim upstream. If he could’ve screamed he would’ve.
I could scream, and did. A yelp of adrenaline and
“oh-my-God-this-fish-is-crazy!” I threw him from my grasp into the air, and
ultimately, back to the water.
Reenergized
by the mistaken thought of escaping death, he shot like a dart upstream. Ironically,
unbeknownst to him, that would be his grave. You see, these Salmon are
spawning, which means once they get fully upstream and lay/fertilize eggs,
their life is done. This poor little guy would’ve had a longer life hanging out
with me in the Red Onion Saloon, but he didn’t realize that. So as soon as I
let him go, he was returning to the inevitable. I, however, had just caught a
wild salmon out of an Alaskan creek by hand, and became the Coolest Guy You
Know!
________________________________________________________________________
I make my way back towards the ship,
down the same road that led me to the end of town. To be fair, my options are quite
limited as it is the only road through town.
I pass the closed liquor store and wonder how
many bottles of vodka Paul at the post office has sold. I hope he gets a cut of
his Bootlegging…
I pass the
Red Onion Saloon with still more guests posing seductively
next to the “this way” sign, noticing
that they’d be more appropriate in an ad for Depends ®
than a Brothel…
As I reach the Salmon bridge, my mood shifts from
sarcastic and cutting, to enlightened and fortunate. I stop and stare again at
the beautiful creatures fighting for their lives and realize for one moment
today, I was one with them. I talk a big game, but it’s moments like these that
I will hold near and dear to my heart all through my life.
Reluctantly, I move on towards the inevitable,
looming high and unnatural in the unspoiled bay. However, before I leave this
world of natural wonder and beauty, I reach into my pocket for my cellphone.
Though Alaska may seem like another world at times, it is important for crew members
who pay per minute for phone and internet access on the ship to remember we are
still in America.
I pause on the dock, straddling nature and the
world of man, and begin to dial. After a few rings, my best friend’s voicemail
chimes in:
“Hey
guys. This is Kai. I can’t get to the phone right now, so please leave me a message
and I’ll get back at you as soon as I can. Have a great day!”
So cordially unlike the Kai I know. The person
who knows all my stories, true and fictitious, and likes me anyway. The guy
who’s been by my side for the good and bad, and especially the ugly. The friend
who when you wake up in a jail cell, you turn your head and he’s there saying,
“Boy that was fun!” I
knew I had to share this day with him, though he may be 3500 miles and 50
states away.
“Hey
boss, it’s me, your best friend. You know how I’m really awesome, well today I
have surpassed even my greatness. I am currently in Skagway, Alaska, and this
morning I caught a Salmon BY HAND
out of a mountain stream. I am just calling you to let you know, I am now
officially ‘The Coolest Guy You Know.’
Peace.”
And with that preposterous monologue, I hung up.
I knew he’d appreciate my ridiculousness, and I appreciated the idea of making
him laugh from a world away. I felt good, the best I felt in a while. Maybe it
was the fresh, salty-sweet Alaskan air, or the pint of Alaskan beer, or the
fact that there were still speckles of Salmon scales on my hands, but I felt
recharged. Ready for anything. Even if that anything was a golf putting
challenge with Bob and Larry on deck 11.
I sauntered up the gangway and towards my room. I
loved this day. I love my life. Hell, I even love Bob and Larry. And I’m sure
they love me too.
After all, I’m definitely the Coolest Guy They
Know!
Main Street Skagway, Alaska.
Red Onion Saloon on the corner.
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