Port in a storm

I wish I could remember just where, quite recently, I heard about the Dutch concept of uitwaaien, which loosely translated means taking a wind-bath. The idea, as best I recall, is that going out for a walk or run or bike-ride in windy weather improves one’s outlook by sweeping healing oxygen into one’s tired body, taking the weary mind into a clearer, happier state. I guess it’s like forest bathing, but with worse weather. I’m quite fond of the trees, but the windy bit is not really my cup of tea.

Timothy used to love being out in the wind — said it made him feel he was back on his motorcycle. I remember walkies on various very exposed British walking paths — the White Cliffs of Dover, Land’s End — and wishing I were already back at the pub with a half of bitters. Tim, on the contrary, would be laughing, blond hair streaming back, baring his teeth to the wind.

That said, we both loathed walking in rain-lashed storms. Pushing the wheelchair through muddy puddles, his knees and legs soaked, his leather cap squashed down low on his forehead… not the fun part.

All these recollections of braving the storm flooded my memory last week, not least because I spent the anniversary of Tim’s passing in a cottage perched on the edge of a cliff, baring its teeth at a proper British gale.

Storms without, stormy within

For the second time, I could not bear to be at home. Being away from coziness, comfort and cats, as I was apart from them that night in 2018, seems right. Being on my own feels right, too. A colleague, texting me some comforting words (and funny photos of cats), was mildly shocked I was alone. “You should be with friends! Why aren’t they with you?” Quite honestly, I fare better attending to my own grief, making my peace with then-and-now, if I do not have to also mind someone else’s misery.

And so I searched for somewhere to serve as that pausing place. The Steward’s House in Fort Columbia, where I stayed last year and which was the site of Tim’s and my last ramble, was closed due to the pandemic. Seeking other places that had meaning for us, I stumbled upon Fort Flagler. This state park is right across the bay from Port Townsend, our first Washington home town. The Engineer’s House, perched on the escarpment overlooking Admiralty Inlet, was a sweet mix of modern convenience (brand-new cooker, TV and DVD player, renovated bathroom) and picturesque fittings. Someone had furnished it with care. There was a handsome sleigh bed, old-fashioned hall tree, a striking display of white china plates hung over the mantel. The mantel itself was strewn with pebbles and sand.

Settling in

The rain held off long enough for me to load in my bedding (a new meaning of BYOB), groceries and overnight bag stuffed with more photograph albums than clothes. As dusk fell, I assembled a little shrine of favorite photos and battery-powered tea-lights. Then, curtains drawn, I made a light supper and opened a bottle of wine. I paged through the folder of printed emails, letters and cards people sent me two Septembers ago. And I played the DVD I made as a tribute to Timothy following his burial at White Eagle.

The midnight of his passing caught me in a storm of weeping, but the deep sorrow passed… By six o’clock the next morning, I could sit up in bed and look at the storm brewing outside with equanimity. Hardy outdoorsy types walked briskly along the trail that passed by yards from the cottage. Even crazier folk decided parasailing in a storm force 8 gale was a swell idea. Snug inside, I wrote in my journal, paged through our photo books, and drew spider-webby diagrams of projects and plans for the coming year.

Preparing to come about in a fresh breeze

The next day, as I readied to leave, a park ranger stopped to see how I’d fared in the storm. I complimented her on the great job State Parks had done renovating the building to be almost-perfectly wheelchair accessible. I hadn’t booked it for that reason, but it made me smile thinking how Timothy would have assessed it. She and I walked through the cottage, noting little things that might make it even better for the next guest.

She pointed out a tiny structure next to the front door, its windows boarded up for the winter. I’d assumed it was a store cupboard of some sort, but no: It was the fort engineer’s office. One day, it would house a little display of his drafting table, drawings and tools. I smiled again, thinking how Tim would have appreciated the coincidence.

A family of resident deer strolled by, heading for the remnants of the apple orchard by the main gate. Following their lead, I closed my car’s hatch and set off on the road back to the present day.