The Ship, the Saint, and the Sailor. Bradley G. Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ empties into it has a strong run of pink and silver salmon. There weren’t many salmon in the middle of the channel though, so the shark must have been attracted by the noise of our paddles. Deciding that I wasn’t on her menu, she soon disappeared.

      Meri and Cailey had entered the maze of little islets protecting Icon Bay from the ocean swells and were hunkered down in a cove, waiting for me. Happy to see that I was still in one piece, they paddled up to me as we excitedly discussed our amazing encounter for a few minutes before continuing our journey, meandering among the islets and coves until we reached the beach in Monk’s Lagoon. There, we set up camp, made dinner, and built a fire on the beach to roast marshmallows before climbing into our sleeping bags for a well-earned rest.

      The land around Monk’s Lagoon is owned by the Ouzinkie Native Corporation and is part of the village of Ouzinkie, about 5 miles up the channel from Icon Bay. The word Ouzinkie is Russian for “narrow,” because the channel is narrow, and the village sits at its narrowest point. Although there were several no-trespassing signs around, we had visited Monk’s Lagoon before; it was a common destination for adventurous sightseers, so we didn’t think anyone would mind us camping there as long as we were respectful of the property.

      That night, Meri and I both had disturbing dreams. I dreamed that some monks and Natives came to hold a church service, and we were camping right in the middle of their church. Meri dreamed that some local people came to kick us out. Still in the clutches of my dream, I heard a high-pitched droning sound, like that of an outboard engine. A minute later, I realized it was an outboard engine. I jumped out of my sleeping bag, threw on some clothes, and climbed out of the tent. Soon a small skiff pulled up on the beach, and out climbed a local Native and a man dressed like a monk. The latter we had met before; he was part of a group of self-styled monks who had settled in Monk’s Lagoon several years previously. I say self-styled because they were not part of the Alaskan Diocese of the Russian Orthodox Church, to which all the local Natives belonged. Most of the new monks were from California, and we had become friends with several of them. The new monks had built a very nice church or monastery in the woods just behind the beach and had begun to live there. But they had done so without permission from the Ouzinkie Native Corporation and eventually were told to leave. Nonetheless, they had remained on speaking terms with the Natives.

      On this day, one of the Natives and one of the monks came to examine the church of Saint Herman, a mile back in the woods. They quizzed us briefly. Did we know what this place was? That it was holy to them? That it was private property? Yes, we answered, of course we knew, and that’s why we had come to see it. We assured them we would respect the place and leave no trace of our visit, and that seemed to reassure them. After all, we were not the first visitors, and more would surely come. In fact, their visit was in preparation for the pilgrimage that would take place in August, a few weeks later. Expecting the arrival of up to a hundred people, they were preparing the church to receive the visitors.

      Father (now Saint) Herman had lived and died in a small hut in the woods, several hundred yards up from the beach. One hundred years after his death, in the 1930s, a new church was built farther back in the woods, and Saint Herman’s body was buried beneath it. That church was now over seventy years old and was starting to decay. Its foundation was rotting due to its location in the middle of a rainforest. Because of the condition of the church, Saint Herman’s remains had been moved to Kodiak several years earlier and reburied under a replica of his original church. Over the summer, carpenters and volunteers had come to work on the church in the forest at Monk’s Lagoon. Slowly, they replaced the foundation, the roof, and the siding, and even built a large deck that was able to hold the crowd that would come for the pilgrimage.

      After breakfast, we followed the path back into the woods toward the church. Every few yards, we found small wooden plaques with a painting of a saint nailed to a tree by the path. During the pilgrimage, the faithful would stop at each icon for a short prayer. Today we just looked and remarked at the beautiful setting, surrounded by stately spruce trees and enveloped with wet, dripping moss. It was a celebration of green, punctuated periodically by bright red salmonberries. We dallied along the path, picking and eating the ripe, juicy berries until we had our fill. Before reaching the church, we stopped at a spring. Supposedly, Saint Herman had come to drink his water here, and a small shrine now stood at the site, with a metal cup for thirsty travelers to use. We all took a drink, honoring the site.

      A small wooden hut and two graves stood nearby. One of the graves was for a man named Father Gerasim, an Orthodox monk who had lived there for a number of years in the early twentieth century. The other belonged to Father Peter Kreta. Father Peter had recently been the priest of the Russian Orthodox Church in Kodiak, following in the footsteps of his father before him, and was much beloved by the church members because he had grown up in Kodiak. A few years ago, he had been stricken with cancer and had died just last year in his early forties, leaving his wife and two young sons. His last request was to be buried near Saint Herman’s church, on Spruce Island. Meri and I had personally known Father Peter and his family, and we were saddened by his death. We paused a few minutes to remember him and then returned to our campsite.

      From the beach where we camped, we could look out and see a string of small islands jutting out from the south side of the bay. Most of these would have been here when Arkhimandritov visited in 1860. His journal indicated that he stood on one of them when he took a bearing to the Kad’yak. When I looked at the chart, it seemed that he could have been writing about the easternmost one, the third island. But I could not see it from the beach. In fact, it looked like just a pile of rocks, barely visible at low tide and almost completely submerged at high tide. I realized then that he must have been standing on an islet to the west of it, the second island from shore, that was slightly larger and had grass growing on it. It was right next to the first, larger islet that rose up from the water in a steep cliff, about fifty feet high. During the great earthquake of 1964, this part of Kodiak sank up to 6 feet, but since that time, it has rebounded slightly every time an earthquake occurs (such as the 7.0 temblor that had occurred in January of 2002). Was it possible that the third, smallest islet had been above water when Arkhimandritov visited it? Or that the second island had broken off from the first during the great earthquake? What other changes had occurred?

      Monk’s Lagoon, as seen from the shoreline during the kayak trip in 2002.

      That afternoon, we got into our kayaks and paddled around to the north side of Spruce Island, around East Point, and through a narrow, shallow channel over some rocky reefs. We pulled into a cove to have lunch on the beach. We had planned to go farther, but the weather forecast was starting to worry me. It was calling for 15- to 25-knot winds that evening and overnight with rain. That was not a good sign, so we decided to head back to camp. We came around East Point directly into the wind, which was now blowing about 20 knots—too windy for kayaking with a twelve-year-old. The quickest way back was to go through the channel out into the middle of the bay and across it, but that would expose us to the full force of the wind. Worse yet, the wind would be at our backs, which was dangerous because we wouldn’t see the waves coming at us and could easily be turned sideways and rolled over.

      After weighing the options, I decided on a slightly longer but safer course, following the shoreline inside of the kelp beds and rocky reefs. At one point we had to pass through a narrow break in the rocks, where swells were washing through. Timing our passage carefully, we waited for a swell to pass. Then we paddled rapidly into the cleft; as we did so, the next swell lifted us up and pushed us through. It was exhilarating but scary, like surfing. In truth it wasn’t that dangerous, but having my daughter along on this trip made everything much more terrifying. I could expose myself to certain calculated risks, but I was not willing to do it with her along. That evening the rain started, so we retreated to our tent early. All night the wind blew and rain beat on the tent, and I found it difficult to sleep, finally dozing off in the wee hours.

      That night I had the strangest dream. СКАЧАТЬ