The Otter Way

I love washing dishes. This love doesn’t stem from working restaurants in my ‘20’s, and eventually opening my own, it developed as I became middle aged, more introverted, and more anxious. At some point, my favorite part of throwing a dinner party became closing the front door on my guests, stacking dishes, and turning on the tap. The ritual of donning a pair of rubber gloves and filling a basin with hot, soapy water soothes the soul. Don’t expect me to volunteer for dish duty unless you set the right conditions:  I like a tall faucet, relatively fresh contoured scrub sponge, and a dishwashing soap that’s not too powerfully scented. Extra bonus points for a spray nozzle, a nice, deep sink, and the drying rack to the left. 

Admittedly, the accoutrement I need to reach a dishwashing state of nirvana and my current setup here on Orcas Island are at odds. It’s hard to create that stellar dishwashing vibe without hot water, or running water for that matter.  Yet I’ve created a setup that works well enough to calm my nervous system. A seven gallon water cube perched atop an upside-down Calphalon braiser is my faucet.  A vintage five quart Dansk pot boils water for soaking and rinsing.  I have the exact dishwashing gloves and sponges I like, and the dishwashing liquid (Palmolive Pure + Clear) is housed in an attractive amber glass pump. While I generally disapprove of leaving dirty dishes in a sink or basin, batch washing is better for water conservation, so before making dinner I usually wash the day’s dishes and tidy up the kitchen, then cook, and do a smaller round of dishes and tidying afterwards.  

What the dishwashing station lacks in efficiency it makes up for in the vista. Through a small bay window, the sink looks out to the North. On the right is a crescent of sea and shoreline.  Straight ahead is a slab of concrete—once a half court—then row of exposed boulders that serve as a kind of fence, and then a small meadow that is currently occupied by scotchboom and blackberry.  There is something about the activity of dishwashing combined with the passivity of taking in a zoomed-out view that scratches an itch. It’s a smoke break. 

Last Friday we got about one inch of rain. More rain fell in an eight hour window than we’d seen in four months. The 50 gallon drum connected to one ten foot gutter, empty for most of summer, filled up three times. It didn’t take long for me to remember what this place is like from October until April—wet as hell, nourishing and oppressive at once. My work was done early, and since it was too wet to work outside, I decided to clean the house.  House cleaning always starts with dishes, so I was in my happy little dish pit when something came into view about 30 feet in front of the window. Perched on a rock, a cat.  A very large, gray cat.  Not Phoebe, Gillian’s cat, who is black and smaller.  Not, in fact, a cat. Too big, too long.  It was an enormous rat!! A monster of a rat, something straight out of a nightmare…but wait, even nightmare rats don’t get this big. This creature, bigger and longer than a cat, not scary enough to be a rat, had a small head relative to its body, a stubby nose, tiny ears.  Standing a few yards in front of me was something that until now, I’d only seen from great distances—a river otter. 

River otters are common around the island's shoreline.  Sometimes I watch them with binoculars, playing on the big rock that juts out from my office window. Like most wildlife, they’re a nuisance when they make their home near (or underneath) yours, but research on the “Orcas Island Rant & Rave” Facebook group indicates that they aren’t a systemic problem in these parts apart from the occasional hostile takeover of an outbuilding or crawlspace near the water. Among the wildlife that traipses across the property, this is the first time I’ve ever seen an otter.  It was on the move before I could capture it on my phone, running up the hill, away from the water.  Why it continued towards higher ground is a mystery, but it seemed to be on a mission.

And because our otter friend is a semi-aquatic animal, it’s fitting this sighting took place right at the precipice of a watershed moment: I am finally getting water to my property. Last week, A combined effort from the Doe Bay Water Users Association and Orcas Excavators resulted in finding the water line that runs through my driveway easement, installing a connection and a meter.  Next week, we will trench a line to my house. Once the water is on site, a whole new dimension of work begins:  replacing all of the plumbing in the house and cabin.  Washing dishes from a faucet may still be a ways off, but it’s no longer a question of if but when, and that helps me sleep better at night.  

The path my perception took of this cat-rat-otter, from the familiar to the unheimlich, to the strange but welcome, might be the best way to sum up the trajectory of the last three years. I cannot think of a time in my life where I wasn’t scared of a self-made disaster like failing school, getting fired, or going to debtor’s prison, yet somehow fear hasn't stopped me from taking risks. God knows not every risk I've taken has led to success, but each one has led me to remaining relatively intact, in this place and this moment. There are so many ways in which this life feels unmanageable, but I don’t think I want anyone else’s right now.  It’s taken 26 months for water, and that wait feels correct, for the gauntlet has made a stronger and more patient person out of me. A sea change takes as long as it takes.

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