The ocean lapped a hypnotic lullaby a few inches from my head as the boat gently rocked me to sleep. If I wished a place to birth anew my narrow v-berth sleeping space in the forepeak of the boat was the perfect delivery room. It wasn't much larger than a mother's womb. Dark. One small round hole of daylight. A ceiling so low I couldn't sit up. I had to push hard to roll out of bed, feet first to hit the deck. Okay, well, a rather clumsy breach birth.

I rose before Ron who snored away in the 'house' of the boat, tucked in behind the captain's seat. I stepped quietly past him with Teak and onto the fog-shrouded dock. Mist fell gently upon my flesh as I gazed upon a stunning large, white fishing boat docked ghost-like across from the Thea G. Her name in large red letters was a stark and beautiful sight: PAGAN.

My spirit soared, as if viewing a message from the water spirits. A sister-ship if there ever was. There have been several boats I've wanted to board based upon their names: 'Invictus,' a little fishing boat and 'White Raven,' a spiffy sailboat with sleek, quiet lines. But this vision through the fog topped them all. I never saw a person on board. All the better...it left me to imagine who haunted the galley; who dreamed within her decks. If I hadn't snapped a picture I'd be left wondering if the boat existed at all...a vision conjured up by my wild woman mind.

Ron tells the story of trying to come up for a name for his last boat. He sat in Swanson Harbor, pondering names like I've seen on other boats: Angoon Trader, Wilderness Spirit, Mermaid Song, when in floated a 50-ft. gorgeous sailboat named, BOB. Too funny. Bob...my new metaphor for no pretense.

I walked Teak and shot more pictures while Ron secured ice for the coolers from an old friend who had extra in his fish hold. We turned the boat around and headed inland, threading our way through fog as it gave way to blue sky and utterly fascinating streams and formations over the mountains.

The Humpbacks were bubble feeding off Pt. Adolphous again. This time a pod of six or seven who lifted their tails split seconds apart in a flurry of curves and fins...a ballet of shiny black flesh. Then the miraculous rise from water, gulping their herring quarry rounded up through their movement and bubbles of breath.