Seward

A primarily slate gray- and brilliant green-colored notch on the east side of the Kenai Peninsula. A weather-beaten little fishing town pinched between tall craggy mountains and a deep, silty bay fed by the runoff from glaciers. Shale and rain.

My favorite place as a three-year-old: the boat harbor. Briny smells mingling with diesel fuel, sounds of seabirds and boat horns, the deep squeaking sound that fishing boats in their berths make when they bump up against the pier with the buoys or old car tires that are lashed sides as bumpers. Snarls of slippery kelp piled up on the shale beach. The occasional mess of rotting herring; a great place for a roll, according to Rhody, our mangy Pomeranian.

I was born in the hospital, delivered by a doctor named Noise. Where we lived was not really a house or a church. Everyone referred to it as “the parsonage”, which I understood to mean our place, where people came for church, which was conducted by my dad. The structure was strangely ordered, like it was built by stream of consciousness rather than according to a plan. There were normal things like a bathroom and kitchen, but then there were levels, staircases, a big open space next to a cramped space. It was always unfinished – not under construction, but each part was partly built and then left alone as soon as it was functional. It was a fun place to be a little kid.

It was just my dad and my mom and my five-years-older brother Nathan and me, and then my two-years-younger brother John showed up. They didn’t make it to the hospital, so he was delivered at the parsonage by Rev. Keene. Two years after that, when I was about four, we packed up and headed across the peninsula for Kenai. My dad needed to build another church. For some reason though, we didn’t go directly there, but instead spent six months in a tiny cabin in a tiny place called Hope. That name was probably ironic for my mom, but made no difference to me. Camping for six months was awesome.

One thought on “Seward

  1. Nice. Next time I take the ferry across from Kodiak I’ll look out for those places on my way to Kenai. Your description of the slate beaches is almost identical to what we see here in Kodiak. I’m pretty sure that the geology of Kodiak is an extension of the Kenai geology. (Note to self: check it out) As I recall the map in my office, I wonder what happened to the land mass. Did Kodiak break off and drift away? Was it one large land mass that eroded out in the area between? But alas, it’s part of the subduction zone geology. Kenai and Kodiak are forarc islands that formed in response to the subduction of the Pacific plate. The Shelikov Strait is the backarc basin. You can envision this as the island arc sitting on top of wave breaking over the subduction trench. Not really how it works, but fun to imagine it. The reality is that we sit precariously on the edge of the subduction zone; a potentially very scary proposition. Imagine being on an island in the same precarious position above the location of the M9 earthquake in 2011. Now that’s a scary thought. But it highlights the unstable nature of living on a forarc island. No, I’m not worried about the island suddenly being swallowed up by the ocean. But we could, and someday probably will, be subject to a rather large earthquake, or not so distant volcanic eruption. Back to the slate beaches. The slate is the result of the accretionary wedge. The sediments that were compressed and squished up are the slate. Then there’s the large mass of gold bearing granite in the middle of Kodiak. Not sure how that relates to it all.

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