mrsstarling - Tumblr blog

mrsstarling · 7 months ago

Text

Object 007: The dock house

A story shared with me directly from the painter:

A few summers ago, I stayed with friends at a house on Sequim Bay out on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State.

Sequim is characterized by several spits, long stretches of beach that project out into the water and are joined to the mainland at one end, like the world’s tiniest peninsulas. But from our home for the weekend, the prevailing scenery was sparkling water, rolling hills, and ever-changing cloud formations. Tree sparrows dive bombed back and forth at high speeds, fishing for bugs in the emerald green lawn. Evergreens and broad-leaf trees alike stood stoic, creating an illusion of complete solitude for the little house. From the moment we walked in, we were drawn to the wall of windows and french doors, out onto the deck, and forced by sheer beauty to take in and appreciate the view.

After bringing in our many bags of clothes and food and crafting supplies, we set off to explore the property. I threatened to enter the little ancient barn we’d passed on our journey down the long, rustic driveway, but we all knew I was too afraid of spiders for that. At the end of the lawn, we came to a small wood platform with a firepit and chairs. Beyond that, a winding flight of stairs lead down to the water. There is something intuitive in all of us that can ferret out the “point” of a place. The point of my own home is the big deck in the treetops, which is about as big as the living space inside. The point of a forest is to remind you how small and insignificant you are next to an old growth tree. The point of this place was most certainly the water. It pulled at us, beckoning, demanding our attention and time.

And so, we followed. We marched across the lawn, down the many steps, to the dock at the edge of Sequim Bay, and were greeted by a little structure. While there, I called it a boat house, though no boats were stored within, so this was a misnomer on my part. I’ll call it a dock house here, as that feels like an accurate (if not exciting) name. I’ll attempt in the following paragraphs to describe for you why I feel it deserves a shinier designation.

This wood-sided structure was nestled into trees on the left side, hill on back, but was open to the bay on the front and the dock on the right. In fact, from within, it was easy to forget there was land or dock at all. The water was the point. The structure was just big enough inside for a futon, a small side table, and lifejackets and paddles for the kayaks that hung outside on the back of the house. There were windows on three sides, including two graceful, arched panes in the door.

By the time it got good and dark, a plan had solidified in my mind. I would enjoy the evening with my friends, and when they retired for the night into the two bedrooms of the house, I would wrap myself in a blanket, grab a pillow and walk down to the dock. I needed more time with the water.

In my mind, I am exceptionally brave. I get an idea, and I’m set upon it. There are no downsides. There are no obstacles. It’s gonna be all great. In reality, I am a person with several phobias and a dark imagination. It was dark, walking down to the dock. Very dark. But I can be brave in the dark. It was quiet, walking down to the dock. Eerily quiet. But I can be brave in the face of skin-tingling noiselessness. However, when I reached my destination, there was a spider on the doorknob. And I cannot be brave in the face of arachnids.

This was not just any casual spider. This was, as my friend later informed me, a wolf spider. I’d probably rather have met a wolf on the dock. This spider was large enough that I could look it in the eye. I could see it’s weird little mouth that looked hungry enough to eat me in tiny, painful bites. If I hadn’t been shining a flashlight at the doorknob, I wouldn’t have seen it. In that moment, the flashlight was all the protection I had. I stood there, frozen, clutching my pillow, staring at the horrible monster, sure that if I broke eye contact, it would attack. I couldn’t tell you precisely how long I stood there, like a crazy person playing that “don’t blink” game with a spider. I was determined to spend the night in an enchanted dock house, but I was faced with crippling fear and incapable of either moving forward or giving up.

I called my friend and she came running, cardboard box in hand, and saved my life. I walked through the door, closed and locked it firmly behind me (in case the spider returned and had superhuman strength and evil intentions), and bundled myself up on the futon, shaking slightly from the trauma of being faced with the existence of spiders. If you also have a fear of the eight-legged beasts from hell, you can easily imagine my train of thought in this moment. If not, I’ll enlighten you. It went a little something like this: Are you absolutely positive that this building isn’t teeming with spiders? Are you really, really sure? Check with the flashlight again. What was that? IS IT ON ME RIGHT NOW?

The only saving grace for this particular moment was that I’d brought along a book. Around this time, I’d realized that while audiobooks were good for multitasking, and digital readers were helpful for storage, my heart belongs solely to traditional paper books. I started carrying one with me everywhere, a shield against boredom, doom scrolling, and thought spirals. The feel of the paper beneath my fingers and the back and forth movement of my eyes became instant comfort, whenever I needed it. That night I read my book in the dark until I could hardly keep my eyes open, and then switched off the flashlight and attempted to fall asleep.

The futon was comfortable enough, but I slept in an odd, cramped position, too cold and afraid of invisible spiders to stretch out. When I rolled toward the windows, it was hard not to let my eyes flutter open and take in the inky darkness, punctuated by just a few pin-pricks of light across the bay and a smattering of stars. I dreamed of spiders and frustrating conversations and all the things that fitful sleep brings. I finally drifted into deep sleep past the witching hour.

I woke up suddenly, just before dawn, knowing I’d heard a sound, but not quite sure what it was. I laid there, warm in my fetal position, undesiring to sit up and look for the sound, and just scrolling through my memories to imagine what it sounded like. And then I heard it again.

I looked up, across my bed, and toward the door. The sound was a hat brim, softly clanking against the window glass. A person stood there, head tilted close, trying to get a look into the dock house. The morning hadn’t arrived yet, and everything was indigo. There was barely enough light to see by, for either them or me. And again, my brain and body told me, in my fear, not to break eye contact.

I am not what one would describe as a morning person. I wake, even from naps, disoriented and hazy. I have believed any number of delirious and ridiculous things in the moments after waking. My dreams tend to bleed into the waking world until I’ve had a chance to drink some coffee and shake them off. At home, my alarm goes off and I flail in its direction until I’ve managed to shut it up and slip back under. For contrast, my husband hears the first tone of the alarm and is out of bed and headed for the shower. Me? I cling to sleep like a drowning person grasps a life raft. Please, save me.

But on this early June morning, in a dock house on Sequim Bay, I knew that it wasn’t a dream. There was someone watching me sleep. My mind cycled through a dozen different scenarios as I made eye contact with this person. Were they the owners of the house? Was I not supposed to be here? Was it a neighbor? A local fisherman? A serial killer?

Being the person that I am, that last idea stuck with me. I comforted myself by repeating to myself the fact that the door was locked. I couldn’t leave the dock house, but the door was locked. There might be spider demons lingering in there with me, but the stranger couldn’t get in. That comforted me for a few moments, but the longer I stared at them and they stared at me, the more I felt like I needed to do something.

I broke eye contact with the watcher to fumble for my phone and the screen blinded me momentarily with its brightness. The clock revealed the extremely early hour, and I hesitated in hitting the call button, looking up again as if to gauge if I was in quite enough danger to wake my friend at the butt crack of dawn. But there was no one at the window and no one on the dock. I was alone again. We’d been across the dock and up and down the wood stairs a few times the day before, and there was no way to traverse that route quietly. There was only water to one side, and thick trees and brush on the other sides that made it impossible to reach the neighboring properties without a ruckus. My only thought at this point was: What in the everloving fuuuuuuu…

It was still far too dark to want to be outside by myself, and I was worried the watcher waited in some nook or cranny to hit me over the head with a shovel as soon as I unlocked the door. So I sat up in bed, since going back to sleep was obviously no longer an option, and I watched the sun come up. The deep indigo blue of the landscape gave way to wisps of pink and yellow on the horizon. The black silhouettes of trees and closer land masses became more distinct against the water and sky. A stately kingfisher took a break from his morning routine to sit and watch the dawn with me just outside the dock house.

Most stirring of all, despite the beginnings of sunrise, I could see a light, far off in the distance, flickering on and off in rhythm–a lighthouse. I’m a bit of a lighthouse enthusiast, and I wracked my groggy brain for information about the local lighthouses. After some time (and a little help from the maps app), I figured out that it was, improbably, across at least two spits, the New Dungeness Lighthouse. Nearly a decade previously, my husband and I had made the five and a half mile beach hike out to this lighthouse as a way to outrun our angst and disappointment over infertility. We were just a few months away from recognizing ten infertile years gone by, and deciding that it was time to put that particular dream to rest.

There was a great deal of comfort to be had in seeing that familiar light spinning in the distance on that disorienting morning. I didn’t reach for the flashlight or the book, I just sat in silence as the world came to life outside the dock house. There was nowhere I had to be, and nothing I had to do to bring the morning to fruition. As I watched, more watercolor hues bathed the sky. More birds joined the party, their voices joined in celebratory morning hymns. The day began in earnest, and joy filled my heart.

I may not historically have been the kind of person who rejoices in waking up in the morning, but I’d love to be a student of mornings themselves. Each one is stunning in its own way, and feels uniquely miraculous. I never walk away from a sunrise without feeling like I’ve witnessed something truly remarkable.

And so, on this magical (albeit bizarre) morning, I felt buoyed in spirit enough to venture back to the house. I looked forward to snuggling up on the couch and snoozing until my friends woke up, safe within the four walls of the main house. In the light of day, the whole thing felt like a silly, far off dream. I faced my fears, spent the night in the dock house, and watched a brilliant sunrise. I was proud of myself. I slipped my feet into my shoes, wrapped myself in my blanket like a cape, and reached for the door handle. It wasn’t locked.

It wasn’t locked.

I don’t have any explanation for this. I may never have an explanation for this. But in that moment, the fact brought goosebumps to my arms and a cold chill to my heart. I had been sure when I woke that a person watched me sleep in the night, and only a window and an unlocked door kept them from reaching me. I’d looked away for only a moment, and that person had disappeared. It made absolutely no sense. But I did the only thing I could do, the only thing any of us can do when faced with the unexplainable. I shivered, walked out the door, and let it go.

My friend slept in the dock house the next night, and slept soundly, assumedly unwatched, into the mid-morning. I painted a portrait of my friend the Kingfisher, sitting on the deck in the sunshine of the day. On our last morning, we watched a Bald Eagle perch in the big evergreen at the edge of the property and dive into the water to catch unsuspecting fish. His appearance delayed our exit a little bit, and we ended up crossing paths with the home’s lovely owners on the way out. I could have said something–could have asked something–but I didn’t. Whatever watches that place meant me no harm, and hopefully saw that my appreciation for the place was pure of heart. Or at least I truly hope so, because I reserved the place for a few days the next year. And as long as it’s just a little strange watching, I suppose it’s worth the price of admission.

#sequim #painting #gouache #ghost stories #storytelling #washington state #mrsstarling

1 note · View note