The other day I walked along the beach while I waited to use the internet at the visitor’s center (one of the few places with wi-fi here). As I was coming off the sand, three people crossed my path and one asked if I had found anything valuable out there, and I replied that I hadn’t, only picked up a red marbled rock more for its aesthetic value than anything else. This started a conversation that became longer and longer, and turned into us sitting on a driftwood log passing around a whiskey bottle and swapping stories.
I’ll call them by where they told me they were from, since I’m sure there are laws about drinking on the beach and I don’t want to get them in trouble. One woman was from Savoonga, and one of the others told me she was the mother of a man who went missing recently in Nome. She was very quiet, and I wanted to say something to her, since I had read about her son in the paper, but I didn’t know what. She left the rest of us talking, I presumed to get something to eat or drink. One said he was from Elim, and the other, from King Island, both Inuit. King Island was full of stories. After Savoonga left, King Island started pointing to the buildings and harbor and told about the history behind them (I don’t know how accurate he was). Elim added his two cents. Both were wood carvers in their spare time, they said, and liked to come to the beach to get driftwood (a pretty common activity here). We told jokes to each other, but what I liked most was a story that King Island shared, which he told me his father had made up. Here’s my version of it:
One day a hunter went out with his gun on a lonely island. Off in the distance he saw a polar bear. He thought to himself, “I’m a good shot, I’ll get him,” and put three bullets in the rifle. He aimed and fired, and the polar bear dropped.
The hunter ran over, and as he approached, he saw that it was a huge bear, bigger than any he had ever seen. Suddenly, the bear rose and went after the hunter. He started to run, then turned and fired his second shot. The bear fell again, and the hunter breathed a sigh of relief.
As he went back to his quarry, the bear rose again, fury in his eyes. He roared and went after the hunter. He was frightened and ran, but saw that the polar bear would catch him. He turned and fired his last shot.
This time the bear didn’t go down and kept coming. The hunter knelt down and prayed, in fear for his life. He heard the animal bearing down on him. Soon he could feel the bear’s breath on him, and all the while he closed his eyes and prayed. The bear knocked him down with his left paw (because all polar bears are left-handed) and held him down. Then, the bear stopped and was quiet.
The man opened his eyes to see the bear kneeling with his eyes closed. The man said, “What are you doing?”
The bear opened an eye and replied, “I too like to pray before I eat.”
I was surprised at how comfortable I felt with them. I’m somewhat of an introvert among most people, and never wholly at ease. I’m sure if this were the Bay Area, most people would not talk and drink with old men on the beach, for fear they’d end up in a dumpster with no shoes and no wallet. It’s probably not an altogether irrational fear, either, and I’m sure it’s the side of Nome the chamber of commerce would rather not have visitors see. Afterward I realized I felt like I could be myself, though, not trying to impress anyone or look “normal.” Maybe it was because they reminded me a little of some of my relatives. However, I came to the conclusion that it’s probably because I’m just like these guys. When you pare down all the extraneous stuff, all that crap to get by and appear civilized, all I really do is drink and tell stories. The difference is, most of the time I do it alone.
Maybe I’m the one who’s got it wrong.
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