Growing up on and around sailboats, I was only partly aware of my avoidance of stepping on the seams between the concrete slabs of the dock but very aware of the sense of unease I got from walking on the wood plank edging. They were often slick and the height of the pier to a kid seemed more than it probably was, so walking along the edge of the dock was a small thrill. Lying there was a different story, though. My sister and I spent untold hours on our stomachs with our arms hanging over the sides, scraping our nets along the underwater portions of the docks and dumping the results into a bucket to comb through. In the Northwest or Caribbean, it didn’t matter- the creatures were mysterious and fascinating. We freely shared our finds (crabs, worms, limpits, etc) with random folks on the dock, the sailing community being friendly that way.
One rainy afternoon in some long forgotten port in the Pacific Northwest, my sister and I were walking back to Foggy Mountain, yellow slickers snapped shut and hoods pulled up. Stepping in the coils made by random ropes and hoses, I was surprised to hear somebody call my name. Looking back through fat raindrops at the men busy with something on the dock, one of them waved and said hello to me. Confused, my seven year old mind tried to place him. Did he know my parents? It was likely enough, but no, he denied knowing them. In fact, he asked if I knew why he knew my name at all. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember my sister calling me back to our walk. He smiled and laughed as we turned away. Then he called out to me, “it’s written on the back of your rain slicker!” I remember laughing.
I have no doubt he was just a friendly soul looking to brighten a little girl’s day. Besides, some of our things were labeled growing up- including life jackets and rain slickers. The memory gives me a vague sense of nostalgia for the “good ol’ times” when you could send a kid into the harbor in safety.
Fast forward twenty years.
The longer I work as a nurse, my name and title clearly printed next to my picture, the less often I’m caught off guard by random people addressing me. But sometimes it still does surprise me, a relative stranger directly calling my name. Then the foggy memory of that day hovers on the fringes of my mind- a soft breath of Northwest air in the dry, sterile hospital.
