Slack Tide
2025 Summer Rerun 4 of 7
Author's Note 7/18/25: Lori and I will be traveling quite a bit the rest of July and August, so loyal Laughable Feast readers will be treated (or subjected) to a few weeks of summer reruns. Some of you have seen these golden oldies before, and hopefully they have stood the test of time.
Soon we will be flying for the first time in eight years, so it seemed apropos to start with the Up With a Twist essay Fear of Flying. And since we are flying to Las Vegas, the following week will be a repost of Leaving Las Vegas. From The Way Back you will have the chance to read two stories – Freeze Frame and naturally The Way Back – both of which give you an indication of how hellish my family vacations were; two more stiff Up With a Twist drinks – I’m Just a Caveman and Free Bird – and a repost of Slack Tide from The Claustrophobia of Wide Open Space.
I hope all of you are having a wonderful summer and will indulge us in this short vacation. New posts will resume on September 5th.
When the tide is high and the breeze is up you can smell the ocean and most days that was enough to make Raymond happy, but today wasn’t one of those days.
He hurt more than usual and the rickety wooden bridge to the pier felt like his bones. Stopping halfway to rest, his hollow gaze bobbed with the boats in the moorage basin and he tried to wad his scattered thoughts into a ball of happiness, or at least something he could live with. Something people around him might mistake for happiness. Raymond knew if that didn’t work the bright-eyed young women at the coffee shop would see he was having one of those days and it would worry them.
He listlessly watched bufflehead ducks floating placidly in small groups, sleek black cormorants diving for fish, and the great blue heron stoically waiting for his morning meal. Sea lions were barking and roaring like they always were. That didn’t register anymore, nor did the clamor of seagulls mobbing the deck of a newly arrived trawler, but the bald eagle couple that sometimes loafed on the light poles were at the basin today and that made the melancholy tighten in Raymond’s chest.
He took a deep breath and sighed. Irene died four years ago, and he hadn’t gotten over it. Over her. He knew he never would. They had just celebrated their forty-ninth wedding anniversary when she took ill. The cough sounded pretty bad, even at first, though of course he told her it didn’t. After a long couple of days, they went to the hospital and the doctors said they’d better keep her there. Raymond stayed with her through a miserable night, and another one after that, and when the morning came, they told him there was nothing they could do. For the last five hours he didn’t let go of her hand.
When the nurses finally left and they were alone, Irene smiled the sweetest smile he had ever seen and mouthed “I love you” before taking her last breath. She closed her eyes and Raymond went ahead and died right along with her.
It took more than a year, but he had forged a suit of armor to wear against the grief and found a compass to help guide him, so he shuddered against the morning chill and continued haltingly across the bridge to the cannery. Not that it’s a cannery anymore. Those are all gone, dried up like the once bountiful salmon runs that filled the mouth of the Columbia river. It made Raymond sad that people can’t get enough of a good thing and don’t know what they’ve got until it’s gone. He didn’t talk about it much, though, because there were too many folks in these parts who remembered when times were good and couldn’t let go. That’s what happens to the truth sometimes.
Walking through the gaping archway that serves as the entrance to Pier 13, he passed the odd little museum with its dusty collection of canning memorabilia and the gift shop that nobody runs. There’s a jar on the counter to put your money in if you buy a T-shirt or a hat and Raymond liked that he lived in a place where people could be trusted to do such a thing, although he was sure some couldn’t. Across the way, the Sea Dog Brewpub was reluctantly getting ready for lunch and he nodded and smiled at the manager wiping down the patio tables and putting out ketchup bottles. Raymond and Irene used to go there on occasion for burgers or a pizza, but he hadn’t been in for a long time so he couldn’t recall the young man’s name. He listened to his footsteps echo in the rafters as he walked past mostly empty offices and the antique bowpicker boats resting on their tired trailers, and through the gloom of the musty building Raymond could see a faltering neon sign at the far end of the pier. The Coffee Counter was open. His pace quickened at the thought of hot coffee and he hurried best he could over the uneven planks of the cannery. The creaking wheezing ghost of a cannery.
The little bell rang when he opened the door and that simple sound cheered him. “Hi, Ray.” He could tell before he looked up it was Clair, one of his favorites.
They were all his favorites and they all called him Ray. He liked hearing a female voice say his name and their kindness felt like a warm coat on a cold day.
There was nobody in line, which surprised him, so Raymond stepped up to the counter fumbling for his wallet.
“The usual?” He handed Clair the little card that sometimes gets you a free coffee and forced a smile. Clair returned the smile and stamped the card. Raymond liked lattes but when the place was busy it could be a long wait, so he usually got black coffee. Today he thought a latte might make him feel better, so he ordered a twelve-ounce triple, exchanged some pocket money with Clair, dropped a dollar in the tip jar, and shuffled around the counter to where Anna was working the espresso machine.
“How you doin’, Ray?” Anna didn’t look up from her work but there was a smile in her voice, so Ray told her he was doing just fine. He settled onto one of the dainty mismatched chairs at a small table near the counter and stared out the lace-curtained windows at the cargo ships. The big ships are the business of the river, full of cars and wheat and wood and what else he wasn’t sure. He never got tired of watching them ply their trade, upriver and down, but especially liked the ones anchored outside the channel awaiting orders. Like wallflowers hoping someone will ask them to dance.
Anna finished pouring the steamed milk in his drink and made a perfect heart in the foam. “Here you go, hon.” Anna was young enough to be Raymond’s granddaughter, but he could tell she had an old soul and the way she said “hon” wrapped him up in memories of Irene. He looked forward to days Anna was there because of that. Raymond struggled with the lid as he often did, and she took a moment to fix it for him. He thanked her and waved goodbye to Clair, stepped out the back door onto the long deck overlooking the river and took in a sip of hot latte with the cool fresh air.
The Columbia is a powerful force, but the ocean can push its way fifty miles upstream when it wants to.
It was slack tide now and the big ships were turning so Raymond sat on one of the benches to watch the ocean and the river fight their brief battle for respect. This slow-motion dance was personal. Grand, rusting ships spinning on their anchors, waiting for somewhere to go, something to do. It’s hard to say how long he sat there breathing the river.
Raymond often lost track of time but he sensed it was almost eleven and Chug the crab man would be wiping the sleep from his crusty shop and opening its eyes. Walter and Merle were coming for dinner tonight and they were going to have fresh Dungeness crab. The Culbertsons lived across the complex and often invited Raymond over. When Irene was alive the four of them would get together, but not very often. He and Irene were homebodies and preferred being alone in each other’s company. Since she passed, though, Raymond accepted the invitation more often than not. This time he was hosting for a change and was grateful for the work that needed to be done.
The tide was ebbing now, so the battle was won, and the five big ships parked off Pier 13 were all obediently facing upriver. Raymond pushed himself off the bench and headed slowly in the direction of the crab shop, past the weathered picnic tables and down the narrow wooden walkway that snakes around the west end of the pier. Once in a while he took shelter in the cannery if it was raining hard, but this was almost always the route he took since it afforded a close look at the moorage basin with all its inhabitants, and also some privacy. Raymond turned the corner and saw the big sliding door was open and the hand-lettered sign for the Cannery Crab Shop set haphazardly on the decking. Pigeons nesting on the light sconces by the door celebrated his arrival with flapping and cooing, and as he walked into the cavernous space with its gurgling crab tank and humming refrigerators, he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark.
“Well, look who’s here.” It had been a few weeks since his last visit, so Raymond expected the sarcasm. He accepted it with vacant good humor and asked for three cooked crabs, but Chug could tell Raymond was on the rocks today, so he dusted off a couple of salty jokes while cleaning and wrapping the crabs. Raymond had heard them before, but it felt good to laugh even if he had to try. He handed Chug sixty bucks, waved off the change, and left the way he came toting a big plastic bag with three beautiful Dungeness crabs cradled in a bed of ice.
The sun had shoved the clouds out of its way and Raymond squinted from light dancing off the water. He started back across the old bridge thinking about the rest of the day. He’d go home and read for a while, after a nap he’d put out some olives and nuts, toss a green salad, make some garlic toast, and lay out newspaper on the kitchen island where they would crack the crab. Raymond liked a vodka martini every now and again so maybe they’d start with a cocktail, then open a nice bottle of wine or two and he would lose himself in good company and conversation for a few hours. After Walter and Merle went home, he’d crumple up the night in the newspaper and toss it down the trash chute so the crab smell wouldn’t overstay its welcome. And that would be that.
The thought of dinner and friends had cheered him but when he stopped for his rest halfway across the bridge the empty feeling seeped in again. He looked back past the cannery at the ships tugging on their chains and envied their simple sense of purpose. He took another deep breath and sighed. Raymond knew from experience he only needed to choose a direction and put one foot in front of the other, and eventually he’d end up where he wanted to go.
Most days he knew which way to turn. But today just wasn’t one of those days.