Port Townsend

As found in my notebook in Indeterminate:

In response to what you said in Chicago, previously, "give us someplace else to escape to."

After a faltering step from me and then one from you — we're caught up again and planning our next trip. Here's a silly idea: Google something almost random and see what comes up. Sometimes lots of fun stuff. Let's start with Pete Townsend, that should open some interesting doors. Here’s one that looks cool — West Coast, Port Townsend, Washington ...overlooks Puget Sound. Let's go....

"Did we really make it the whole way across the country?"
It appears that way, you say dryly, it doesn't look like where we started.
This statement warrants a sneer from my face when you're not looking. I can't believe we made it the whole way. We pull up in front of the Waterstreet Inn, Port Townsend, Washington. We see a placard advertising a whale watching trip.
"I want to do that while we're here," I say. You look at me, annoyed that I want to do something so uber-touristy. (It wasn't that, it was just that, well, you'll see in the near future... "What?" Nothing, let's save it for later.)
"Did you know that for a lot of years I wanted to be a marine biologist?"
No, I didn't. But, I've been wondering why an English major took AP Biology in high school.
"Status." I reply, with a smirk. "I got a 99 on my final lab report. Good writing can fool even the sharpest high school science teachers."
We check in, toss our bags in the room, and then we turn right around and head out the door. The receptionist gives us the insiders' track to the best coffee shop and a cool indie bookstore to check out Perfect—a piece of cake vanilla for me and lemon for you (do you like lemon? I'm just guessing)--and a fabulous cup of coffee (don't worry, I'll let you know if it really is good) for an after lunch snack. You pick up a Jack Kerouac title, and I try to guess how many pages are really in War and Peace.
Then, I decide that my rear end isn't sore enough from a cross-country road trip just yet, so I suggest we wander down by the beach and see what we can get into. The afternoon sun has crested and is starting to consider setting. We pass a bicycle rental shack, and you tilt your head to gauge my interest and communicate yours. I spot a horseback-riding shack up ahead and turn on my heel to look at you.
"I'll flip you for it." I smile with raised eyebrow. (Hey, when'd you learn how to do that. "I'm just borrowing it for this piece, it's back to you when you get the pen back.")
Fifteen minutes later we're atop two chestnut horses, and our guide leads us down the rocky trail onto the beach. We walk first, and then the guide picks up the pace and we're trotting a little. You turn your hat around backwards to keep the wind from blowing it off. The salty hair scrubs my face clean of all the dirt from the car trip, and the sea spray and water kicked up from the horses is making our legs damp. Looking out over the water, the sun looks like a giant yellow ball, dropping quickly now, turning the sky a brilliant menagerie of color and giving the sunsets in Key West a run for it. We start to head back to the shack, and we ride in silence listening only to the snorts and hoof beats of the horses and the water massaging the shoreline.
Off the horses, a carrot and a pat for good measure (you still had [miraculously] two carrots left in your pocket from the snow day), and we're heading back to the hotel. Dinner comes next, and we propose rock-paper-scissors to decide what we get as we walk through the little strip of restaurants and shops. We narrow the choices—Italian (of course) or French bistro. I let you win (Paper. "Ok, then, Rock. You, always with the Paper" Yeah, and you always Rock. "Cute."), because I know you're still thinking about all things French (cap?), so you order everything, and we carry it back to the inn. The receptionist nods and smiles as she sees the name of the restaurant on the bag, Le Petit.
"You guys don't need any help from me. You already know where to go. You have great instincts. But, before you go up, hang on..." her voice drops off as she disappears into the back office behind the desk. She returns a minute later and hands us a bottle of wine.
"On the house—it should suit perfectly." And, of course it does. We sit by candlelight in the twilight on our room's balcony and eat fancy food while sitting in sweatpants and warm socks. The view overlooks the Sound, and we can see a few straggling fishing boats' lights still out on the water.
After dinner we push our chairs together next to each other's and grab an extra blanket to keep our legs warm. There isn't much to say, which is okay, although I can hardly contain my excitement about the next day's whale-watching trip. We sip on after-dinner coffee that I made in the room's tiny coffee pot.
This is good coffee, you say.
"No, it isn't. But thanks for saying so." It keeps us warm on the inside as the damp cool of the progressing evening moves in closer and closer. Once the coffee's gone, we move inside and flip through the channels on the TV to see if we can catch a movie.
"What do you want to watch?" I ask, yawning.
You mumble something I can't understand as you flip through the channels. We stumble upon an old episode of the Muppet Show.
"Awesome." I say, perking up a little.
We catch a little Kermit and Miss Piggy action as well as the two old guys' commentary from the balcony before our eyes grow heavy and we start to slump...
The morning sunlight turns the sky gray, then light blue, and it wakes you before me. You try your luck with the coffee pot, yet alas, you abandon the effort and stealthily sneak out to the bakery on the corner to procure a light breakfast and some good West Coast coffee. A light breakfast is crucial to preventing seasickness. And although I'm the more water-acclimated of the two of us, I am not immune to ill that comes from being on a smaller boat in a bigger body of water. I recall one fishing trip on Lake Michigan when I would have rather been anywhere else.. . that... wasn't... moving.
After fresh breakfast bread with jam we make our way down to the marina. The boat captain greets us with a smile as we climb aboard.
"It'll just be us this morning. It's too bad there isn't anyone else coming—the coast guard is tracking a pod about three-quarters-of-a-mile off right now. Should be a good show!" he announces. He's wearing yellow slicker pants (the West Coast version of snow pants, me thinks) and a floppy canvas hat that reads "I Heart Seattle." He scoops up some rope and fidgets with some of the buoys on the side of the boat. You eyeball nervously the nearest life vest to you as he looks us over one last time and says, "Ready?"
Off we go across the Sound, and there's still morning mist lingering in the distance. But, as we move closer to it, it seems to move farther away. A half-hour later the sun has evaporated most of the mist and the narcissistic mountains admire themselves in their own reflections on the smooth surface of the water. The captain cuts the engine and lets the boat drift on its course. He smiles and puts his fingers to his lips to keep us from speaking. He flips a few dials near the steering wheel, and all of a sudden we can hear the whales' trumpeting chatter nearby. Alongside the boat, a few portentious air bubbles break the surface. The captain smiles and silently, but excitedly points downward to tell us the whales are directly beneath the boat. Twenty seconds later a sudden blast turns our heads to the left and we see a dorsal fin rolling through the water on its way back beneath the surface. A moment passes and we hear another blast—then another, and another and soon the whole pod has surfaced.
"I do this every single day and it never gets old," sighs the captain. We watch the whales play about for the better part of an hour, and then they submerge and the chatter becomes more and more distant as they swim toward the open water. The captain starts the engine again and heads back to the marina.
We waste the early afternoon by strolling around the marina shops before we return to the hotel and pack our things up—only one night in Port Townsend for us.
"Where to next?" I ask.
You tap your coat pocket, which contains a map of the western seaboard.
Shall we get a cup of coffee while we decide? you ask.
"Sure." I say and take the arm you proffer. As we start to walk, I look up at you.
"It's sweet that you're making me feel like I can help choose the next place."
Why wouldn't I let you help choose?
"Because I think you already know where we're going."