Escape to Whidbey

I’ve been craving a road trip recently. Not just a three-hour drive to see my family, but something new and exciting. I decided on somewhere in Washington, seeing as I’m a broke college student. I researched quiet coastal towns within a few hours with good coffee and settled on Whidbey Island. I packed a ridiculous amount of snacks, made a makeshift bed in the back of my car, packed extra warm clothes—God knows I’m not paying for a hotel—grabbed my school things, told only my sister, and drove off.

It was in the same direction as home for the first hour and a half, but the feeling behind it was completely different.

I played all the music I loved: Soviet hits, coastal vibes, Russian rap—some stupid, some good—Romani bangers, and reminisced on previous adventures. I was excited to take my first solo trip within Washington. I hopped on the ferry and, for the 20-minute ride, admired the different angles of art: the different shades of green in the surrounding forest, the different hues of blue in the water below me, the birds flying and making their sounds to find each other above me, the smell of the fresh ocean breeze.

I set a few goals for myself on this trip. I would fully embrace the fact that no one knew me. No one knew how shy and awkward I could be; no one knew I was dealing with losses left and right; no one knew anything. And that’s exactly what I wanted.

As I drove onto Whidbey, to a small town called Langley, I went to a restaurant playing the Mariners game. I sat at the dimly lit bar on a leather-upholstered stool while everyone in the back cheered and booed at the screen. As I was deciding on my order, an older man sat beside me.

“You should get the sliders,” he suggested. “They’re really good.”

I had eaten so much crap during my drive that I needed something fresh. I asked if he’d ever tried the Caesar salad with shrimp.

He hadn’t but told me to take the chance and try it.

I did. Amazing choice. As I ate the shrimp (the best part), he sipped his beer and I sipped my mead, and we discussed baseball. I guess it was a big season for the Mariners. He asked if I was a fan.

I told him I knew nothing about sports. I never understood the goal.

“It’s an interesting game,” he said, “but it takes forever sometimes. The longest Mariners game was eleven hours.”

That sounded like it would have been awful to sit through.

He told me he was originally from Colorado but had decided to move to Whidbey. He suggested things to do around the island. I never caught the name of this kind stranger who enlightened me on the world of baseball on night one of my solo trip.

Afterward, I walked around a bit, too tired of the car to sit still. It was already dark; the sky lit up with specks of light. I reorganized my trunk bed, talked to God, and drove to Hidden Beach, true to its name. It was pitch black, one distant streetlight between two residential areas. Unsure if I could park there but too tired to care, I kept my switchblade close, opened the sunroof to the artwork above me, said a prayer for protection and peace, and passed out.

I woke to fogged windows and cloudy light.

As I got out to stretch—and to check if anyone was around—I noticed a no overnight camping sign. Whoops. I wandered past someone’s kayak, peed with the prettiest view, then returned to my car and sat in the trunk facing the water, stunned by its beauty.

I wanted to read or write, but it began to rain, something I didn’t realize I’d missed so much. I stared, mesmerized, as I talked to the Creator, then got ready and drove on to Coupeville.

I had a very rough plan: a few suggested stops and a lot of open roads. I drove with my music, prayers of gratitude, and a quiet request for excitement.

I grew up on the west side in Everett, where it rained often and everything was green. After moving to Ellensburg, I missed the rain—the real kind—the fog, the forests. I missed home.

Though I’d never been to Whidbey before, it felt familiar in that way. Everett carries dangers; Whidbey doesn’t seem to.

As I drove into Coupeville, I saw a sign for a farmers’ market and walked around in the foggy rain, then stumbled into a free museum to learn about Coupeville and Whidbey. Afterward I went on the dock looking for a coffee shop I had researched earlier. I left as quickly as I entered. It lacked comfort; it felt dim while the lights were on. I didn’t want to commit to writing there. I went back to the dock, the waves clashed, the birds sang, people spoke, the breeze was blowing all around me.

I get into my own head sometimes. I overthink, get overwhelmed, and feel like I need to figure out every aspect of my life while also being in the moment and not letting it pass away. It’s nice to stop and focus on other things. To be in the moment. I really enjoy people-watching. It helps me step away from myself. I look at people, at their lives, and realize we all live similar lives.

I went from shop to shop and happened upon a European market where spiced wine was offered for sale . I hate red wine, but mulled and warmed wine is something I can drink endlessly. I bought one bottle with the cold of Ellensburg in mind.

Toby’s restaurant lured me in for breakfast. I sat at the bar next to a lady who started up a conversation, asking if I wanted anything to drink. She had just finished her shift and was waiting for her ride. I ordered a local cider and we started chatting. She was originally from Liverpool and had been in America for over ten years now. Her kids are still in England. She came to America years ago—I couldn’t remember exactly why, maybe just to see something new—and went straight to Wisconsin. When that stopped feeling right, she took a Greyhound to Chicago, got mugged within two hours.

“I hated it. Don’t go to Chicago.”

She threw a dart at a Greyhound map. It pierced Seattle and she never looked back. There she met her second husband.

“He was the love of my life. I didn’t know good ones were out there.”

Her first husband had been abusive, which ended the marriage. A few years into her second marriage, her husband was diagnosed with cancer. They moved to Utah for treatment and spent two years there before he passed. Afterward, she returned to Whidbey and asked for her job back. They welcomed her with open arms. She’d been back for only two months at the time of our conversation.

She suggested I order the fish tacos, and I listened this time. Four oversized tortillas, just fish—no vegetables. I ate as we talked, and she told me about her younger brother, once addicted to heroin, and how she made him quit for their mother’s sake. He stayed clean. I told her about a friend’s funeral I had gone to over the summer. He used to be a heroin addict and was nearly two years clean when he needed a sense of relief from life and was unfortunately sold laced meth. I was happy her brother found freedom from addiction.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry for yours.”

We continued talking while I struggled to finish the last of my tacos, and then went our own ways. I dropped off tomorrow’s breakfast in my home for the weekend.

Coupeville is small, and I soon ran out of places to wander. I went to a recommended coffee shop and stayed for hours, reading and drinking from my own mug. When it closed, I decided to complete the island and see the last of the three major towns.

I drove to Oak Harbor, another quiet waterfront town, resembling the others: water, one main street, shops, and beauty. Most places were closed. I walked the dock, back and forth, prayed to the Artist as He painted the most beautiful picture, then retreated to another coffee shop for warmth and herbal tea. A man nearby told me it was closing in five minutes and suggested a few other spots.

Instead of following his suggestions, I drove back to Coupeville. I walked the same streets again, now dark. A group of girls were doing a ghost-themed photoshoot—sheets, glasses, laughter. I offered to take pictures, snapping dozens, fixing sheets, calling out poses.

“Should we tip her?” one of them joked.

We laughed, and I continued on. Everything was closed apart from an open bar inside an inn.

I sat in a booth, writing memories and hard truths while I sipped on some hot tea that tasted awful because the honey wasn’t good. I wrote what I would later read aloud at my first public reading.

I left a little after midnight and searched for my new home for the night—or rather, the ground that would hold my home for the night. I drove around in circles, looking for the perfect spot: hidden but not so far away from people that I was completely isolated. I drove for ten minutes and decided to go back to where it all started: the public parking lot with public (and clean) restrooms. I said my prayers and passed out.

God woke me up around eight. I ate yesterday’s tacos for breakfast, walked around a little, got ready, and went to a nearby church to attend service.

The sermon was about humility, a topic I’ve been thinking about lately: that pride comes before the fall.

And it really does.

Pride makes me believe I’m all-knowing, self-sufficient, above others: foolish.

I’m not higher than others, especially not God. I need people—I’ll go insane without community, and it’s been proven over and over again. I can survive on my own, but I’ll suffer. I don’t want the fall that comes after it. Pride prevents growth, and what is life if we don’t grow in it?

I prayed with one of the ladies about the loss of a friendship, got a cup of coffee from the church café, and moved on to another suggested spot.

Ebey’s Landing is beautiful and peaceful. The water extended for miles; the fresh smell of the ocean air was all around with a gentle breeze, and the water, a beautiful deep blue, was surrounded by different shades of rocks that had traveled more than I had.

I tried to find a few that resembled my eyes and walked a little further and found a fort someone had made with washed-up driftwood. I sat inside it, closed off, the only opening in front of me. It seemed like I was looking at the ocean as a picture framed by the driftwood opening. Art to truly behold.

As I drove, I saw signs for a park, pulled in, walked down to a small beach, and stood in awe. The beach faced another island. I got a text saying, “Welcome to Canada,” which completely threw off my geographical knowledge. A woman came and stood on a rock, also taking in the beauty that surrounded us. I really liked the angle at which she stood and offered to take a few photos for her since the lighting was just right and the background was beautiful. I snapped a few with all the angles, and we laughed about how awkward it is to take photos. We talked a bit more before going on our separate adventures.

The town of Langley was a twenty-minute drive away. By that time starvation had taken over. Nothing caught my eye except a natural foods market. Anything natural and holistic gets me every time. I wandered in, captivated by the wonder of what my next unnecessary purchase would be: a canned cocktail that sounded good (I found out a month later when I drank it that it was not good), discount bone broth, chocolate—I love chocolate—and a wellness shot.

I dropped my goodies off at my car and went to some coffee shop I hoped had decent food. I ordered a cup of coffee and a burger. The burger was gone quicker than it took for me to order it, and the bitter coffee lingered. I wanted some ice cream, but their flavors didn’t appeal to me.

I finished my burnt bean water and continued on: wandering into shops, finding hidden alleyways, and new shops in those alleys. I stumbled upon an ice cream parlor and chose chocolate chip.

I found a resort by the water—probably trespassing—and took in the view. When the rain picked up, I headed back to my car, straying from the path one last time. Around a corner, I found a phone booth holding an unopened pack of meat seasoning. A free souvenir. Happy early birthday to me.

I drove to the ferry, boarded, and wandered as usual. Outside, the Artist added brushstrokes of His promise to the sky while a family of seagulls flew together, almost dancing.

The sea journey ended after a short twenty minutes, and ready for a real bed, I drove back to the place I’ve called home for the last six years.