Blakely Island presents boaters with an intriguing combination of literary images: summer reading literature, not that stuff Miss Hinkenbothem tried to teach you in high school.  In a single day Blakely can swing from fairytale through summer romance to gothic mystery.

            The first images are Lewis Carroll.  The neat rock breakwater is bordered by large trimmed lawns on both sides shaded with tall firs and pines.  Flower beds reminiscent of Disney’s Fantasyland dance in the sunlight. 

            We were greeted in the tiny cove by an otter who showed us his lunch as we tied up.  Kingfishers and swallows plied their trade among the masts and flying bridges. Lazy sprinklers watered a groomed meadow that was shared by a flock of geese and the occasional deer.  We began to wonder if the road leading through the huge lawn and up the hill went to Mr. Toad’s Hall.

            An inviting little store (the only business on the island) spilled out a half dozen children with faces full of ice cream cones.  A 1950’s soda fountain counter waited inside offering chowder, ice cream, hot dogs and (alas, even here!) lattes.  At dawn it is scented with made-on-the-spot doughnuts.  They’re delighted to save you some if you are prone to sleep in.

            Out front, people sit and gaze into the more western San Juan Islands from pretty café tables while others inside dream absently over their lap tops looking out the bay windows.  A few small homes dot a long crescent beach leading to a broad meadow that turns out to be a small private airfield.  A tall wooden dock reaches out to nearby islands in the shiny sea.

           A pretty girl chirps happily behind the counter as wanderers stumble in looking for moorage.  The handsome one with the stubble is alone.  The girl behind the counter is just here for the season. Their eyes meet.

           The Nora Lofts wanna-be in my mind starts typing.  “He asks if he can spend the night then chokes on his unintended gaffe.  She blushes and then laughs.” A romance begins.

            But then there is the dark side. 

            As we walk towards the beach a high chain fence and steel sign warn us sternly away.  “Marina visitors are restricted to marina property unless accompanied by BIMC members. No Trespassing!”  The community suddenly turns strange.  

           My mind starts typing.  “The girl behind the counter was too perfect. Is she one of ‘them?’”

           “Why won’t anyone answer my questions?  Who runs the airfield?  How do you get mail?  What do they really do at the deer research station?”  Romance has turned to gothic mystery.

            On rickety stilts an old cabin borders the property leading to the woods.  Its wooden walk-around porch sags against mossy pilings.  Rusting narrow gauge tracks overgrown with grass run from the cabin down into the water.

            “They must have dragged it from the sea on these tracks and hidden it in the forest,” said Chipper.

           “Perhaps,” replied Doctor Burton, “But those tracks could also lead down to their city under the island.”  

            The kingfisher’s cry now sounds more like a warning.   Crows eye us warily from the trees that have grown up against the porch.  The otter splashes and is gone. 

           But wait.  Late afternoon light exposes the interior of the apparently deserted cabin.  Hazy yellow beams reveal furniture; a couch, chairs, and a table with a printer for a computer.  Who lurks within behind the moss and the creaking pines?  

           “Pale from years in the dark, Pip Grumley booted up his lap top and typed in ‘poisons.’”

Suddenly a motor roars outside the breakwater and a boxy grey aluminum boat with a frowning bridge tears away from the island.  It’s not a James Bond BMW of a boat, it’s a Jason Borne muscle boat designed for deadly deeds and nasty seas.  Where is it going in such a hurry as the sun, a burning orange, slips behind the blackening bulk of Lopez Island?

           “Turning hard to the south he glanced around the cockpit. Aaron spotted a spear gun and a diving knife. He shrugged. They would have to do.” 

           On the docks it is whispered among the visitors that a tug boat tycoon and potato baron own much of the island.  We are told there are less than 20 year-round residents and most of them are caretakers of estates with absentee owners.  We had crossed such a caretaker at Anacortes who spoke wide eyed of the long winters on his empty storm locked island.

           “Oh, thar’s things in these islands men never dreamed of.  Strange things no god ever meant to make!”

           The sun is gone and an evening chill cuts the air.  The sounds of nature have grown more ominous.   Mother otter chirps and calls her family to shelter.   A lonely green light reaches out to us across the dark water like Gatsby sighing for his Daisy.  The forest turns black.   A creature cries out in the darkness.  We button down for the night. 

           We’ve been out three weeks and here two days.  Should we stay?   Blakely is a little more expensive than some and I’m out of spar varnish, but the clean fresh water here would delight Captain Aubrey while the Wifi and facilities have never been closer.  I stare into the darkness.

           Patti chooses another dreamy Rosamunde Pilcher novel and I decide to put down my Bernard Cornwell stories of swords and Saxons.  I pick up a Stephen King.  It could be a long night.  

           We’ll stay another day.  The chores can wait and we have some reading to do. 

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Published in N’orwesting Magazine- October 2010

Blakely Island Marina is about 12 miles northwest of Anacortes on the north end of Blakely Island. (48°35.1’ N, 122°48.8 W) It is immediately to your south as you sail west through Peavine Pass.