Moving to a place where you don't know anyone is an unsettling experience. It may seem obvious, but it's a feeling not easily imagined and uncomfortable despite anticipation. It is surprising how much we rely on those around us for identity, and how comforting it is to understand a culture, even if it is simply a subculture of the same country.
I've had to remind myself multiple times in the last week that this unsettled feeling is not entirely new, and in fact, reminiscent of when we first moved to Colorado only six years ago. I recall standing at a party in September, our first month there, completely at a loss for words (a rarity for me) while everyone around me eagerly regarded the upcoming ski season and reveled in fond memories of previous "epic" snow falls. I later remarked to a friend how dull the conversation had been, "I mean, does anyone talk about anything else
besides skiing?!" One year later, come September and the first hints of cool air, I found myself enthusiastically discussing the next ski season at a party and had to laugh at how quickly I had assimilated.
Here in Port Townsend, it isn't snow that delights the locals. It's boats. Like skiing in Colorado, this hobby and trade helps define the local culture and attracts people far and wide to the Wooden Boat Festival. We arrived just in time to volunteer, which proved a great way to introduce ourselves to the area, people and furthermore push our comfort zones into once again unsettling situations (myself in particular). I was placed as a volunteer in "retail" where all kinds of questions left me staring blankly at my inquisitors.
"Excuse me, could you please tell me where I might find some burgees?"
- Lovely lady looking for burgees.
Me: "I would be happy to, if you could first please tell me, what are burgees?"
And so on and so forth (for those who may not know, burgees are the little flags adorning sailboats, as the lady in the scenario above so kindly explained). Some people had entire conversations with so many sailing terms that I could barely follow along. The language is so literally foreign, it is much like standing in a foreign country only all the more disarming since it is actually English. At one point, as I was carrying a beer to Griffin on the pier, a gentleman said in passing, "Argh, to be receivin' such a load from a lovely lass!" I kid you not. And he was not an anomaly. I heard many "arghs" and "mateys" and other such words I have really only heard on Halloween, along with quite a few others I am sure I have never heard.
[By the way, if you haven't experienced a Sea Chantey, I highly recommend it. They are the epitome of nostalgic boat songs and are hilarious - and almost always involve drinking. You Tube it. ]
At the end of the festival a dinner was held for all the volunteers. We bustled in with the crowds (including a pirate looking man chanting "We want beer!") and found our way to a couple of vacant seats at a table with some folks who warmly welcomed us. By the end of the night we had invitations to stay at our new friend's houses, sail with them on their boats, and yes, join the yacht club. I didn't even know yacht clubs really existed, much less that I would ever be invited to join one. I don't even own loafers. I truly would have guessed them a creation by Hollywood
where elitists gathered and never invited the likes of Griffin and I. But, our friends were very friendly and quite pleasant to chat with, and not in the least bit snooty. In fact, many of them shared our sense of adventure and love of traveling, which I am finding is a theme with boat people.
At the risk of heavily romanticizing our move, I have to say that the people here are some of the kindest people I have ever met. When we introduce ourselves as newcomers, we are immediately showered with tips regarding who serves up the best pizza, or which intersections are the most dangerous, and where best to buy groceries. The setting, a victorian town surrounded by water on three sides, with roads lined in fennel, blackberries and rose hips, is beyond picturesque. And the boats, well, they are beautiful works of art. With a little luck, and a bookmark of wikipedia's "glossary of nautical terms", I think we'll fit in just fine. And maybe one day, I'll even speak boat.
