Chapter 3
Solace Resort
Solace Resort
At the Bellingham airshow that summer, Dave met another friend, one who eventually linked Dave and me together. Susie was full of life and outrageous enthusiasm. She was excited about her upcoming trip to Hawaii, where she planned to compete in a catamaran race. What a woman. While she flashed the illusion of a free spirit, in truth, she was reeling from a lifetime of narrow escapes and tragedies.
I have a lingering vision of Susie. She’s standing on the beach in front of my house in Anacortes, clad in white shorts and a denim shirt, her blond hair whipped by the constant breeze of Gibraltar Bay. In her typical hurrah attitude and splashed with mud, there she was striking a Hey-look-at-me-I-did-it pose with shovel in hand and a pail full of clams.
Before leaving on her trek across the Pacific, she wanted to introduce me to her friend, Dave Rahm, a popular air show pilot in the Northwest. Because he taught geology at the University of Western Washington, the local publicists gave him the handle of “The Flying Professor.” Dave made quite a striking first impression with his strong jaw line, steely blue eyes, and self-assured jaunty manner. Even so, he was genuinely personable. It was interesting that Susie thought Dave and I would have more in common than they did. What was that, I wondered? It certainly wasn’t flying airplanes.
However, watching an airshow has always thrilled me like a little kid at a carnival. It's as explosive as fireworks on the Fourth of July. Notice I said "watching." I had absolutely no interest in going up in a small aircraft, not since the time I went to an airshow at Miramar Naval Air Station in California.
My adrenaline soared as jets zoomed overhead, breaking the sound barrier. I loved the graceful smoke of the twirling aerobatic airplanes and the army of skydivers. However, when I went up for a scenic tour in a small airplane after the show, the pilot took his hands off what I thought was the steering wheel, looked at me with a big grin, and said, "Look, no hands!" The pilot nearly scared my hair straight! At the time, I didn’t know a thing about the yoke, yaw, pitch, or rudder pedals. I made up my mind right then and there that I didn't want anything to do with small airplanes or the showoffs that flew them. I was certain the sky wasn't for me. I would never go up in one of those small planes again. That was, however, until a person of powerful persuasion came into my life.
You know what they say about, "Never, say never." Little did I know how my prop would spin in the years to come.
I have a lingering vision of Susie. She’s standing on the beach in front of my house in Anacortes, clad in white shorts and a denim shirt, her blond hair whipped by the constant breeze of Gibraltar Bay. In her typical hurrah attitude and splashed with mud, there she was striking a Hey-look-at-me-I-did-it pose with shovel in hand and a pail full of clams.
Before leaving on her trek across the Pacific, she wanted to introduce me to her friend, Dave Rahm, a popular air show pilot in the Northwest. Because he taught geology at the University of Western Washington, the local publicists gave him the handle of “The Flying Professor.” Dave made quite a striking first impression with his strong jaw line, steely blue eyes, and self-assured jaunty manner. Even so, he was genuinely personable. It was interesting that Susie thought Dave and I would have more in common than they did. What was that, I wondered? It certainly wasn’t flying airplanes.
However, watching an airshow has always thrilled me like a little kid at a carnival. It's as explosive as fireworks on the Fourth of July. Notice I said "watching." I had absolutely no interest in going up in a small aircraft, not since the time I went to an airshow at Miramar Naval Air Station in California.
My adrenaline soared as jets zoomed overhead, breaking the sound barrier. I loved the graceful smoke of the twirling aerobatic airplanes and the army of skydivers. However, when I went up for a scenic tour in a small airplane after the show, the pilot took his hands off what I thought was the steering wheel, looked at me with a big grin, and said, "Look, no hands!" The pilot nearly scared my hair straight! At the time, I didn’t know a thing about the yoke, yaw, pitch, or rudder pedals. I made up my mind right then and there that I didn't want anything to do with small airplanes or the showoffs that flew them. I was certain the sky wasn't for me. I would never go up in one of those small planes again. That was, however, until a person of powerful persuasion came into my life.
You know what they say about, "Never, say never." Little did I know how my prop would spin in the years to come.
Rosario Beach - The little house on the cliff, in front of the 3-story building, was my solace resort.
Rosario Beach
The view we shared at Rosario Beach on Fidalgo Island was a sweeping southwest panorama of the San Juan Islands and the Olympic Mountain Range in Washington State.
In the crisp morning, light beams from our ever-attending star embraced the skies as it cast an alpine glow on the peaks of the Olympics. Just at the moment of sunrise, the onrush of a great rolling breeze could be heard as it swept across the water, climbing the cliff and stirring the trees. The trees, creaking as they stretched their limbs heavenward, pulsed and strengthened their grip on the earth entangled in their gnarly roots. The chatty morning finch sang out to let the world know all was well. Morning had dawned.
The newness of each day was a reminder to me that God's song can be heard everywhere on earth. Music from the spheres of the universe penetrates everything with a vibrant resounding song orchestrated by the primary creator of all things. Have you ever listened to the symphony played out by raindrops on the water? Even soft fluttering snowflakes emit different resonating tones. There’s an incomparable symphony, which encompasses all life on our blue sphere.
In the late summer season, sunsets, like trailing veils of chiffon, sweep across the sky in soft pastels deepening into flaming reds just before they give way to zillions of bright sparkling stars.
Dave’s property was abundant with lovely old-growth pink and white-flowered rhododendrons. Each clustering bouquet beckons hummingbirds and bees to gather the goodness from its deep succulent recesses. Standing with the rhododendrons were magnificent madrona trees, guarding Rosario’s rugged coastline. Their dark rosy bark peels off in thin sheets, revealing smooth, firm limbs underneath. Their laterally spreading evergreen crowns, with shiny leaves and white flowers, have edible berries the color of a flaming sunset.
Native Americans found the bark useful in making a reddish-brown dye for color designing their clothing, mats, and ceramics. The graceful lines of the madrona tree inspire the people of the Lummi Indian Nation as they use the wood for dwellings and sturdy furniture. The smooth wood requires little polishing, save that of oiled hands, which carefully rub the limbs to a fine finish. One particularly magnificent madrona tree on Dave’s cliff line seemed to possess a greater strength as it stood staunchly against the battering elements of wind and sea.
Rosario Beach
The view we shared at Rosario Beach on Fidalgo Island was a sweeping southwest panorama of the San Juan Islands and the Olympic Mountain Range in Washington State.
In the crisp morning, light beams from our ever-attending star embraced the skies as it cast an alpine glow on the peaks of the Olympics. Just at the moment of sunrise, the onrush of a great rolling breeze could be heard as it swept across the water, climbing the cliff and stirring the trees. The trees, creaking as they stretched their limbs heavenward, pulsed and strengthened their grip on the earth entangled in their gnarly roots. The chatty morning finch sang out to let the world know all was well. Morning had dawned.
The newness of each day was a reminder to me that God's song can be heard everywhere on earth. Music from the spheres of the universe penetrates everything with a vibrant resounding song orchestrated by the primary creator of all things. Have you ever listened to the symphony played out by raindrops on the water? Even soft fluttering snowflakes emit different resonating tones. There’s an incomparable symphony, which encompasses all life on our blue sphere.
In the late summer season, sunsets, like trailing veils of chiffon, sweep across the sky in soft pastels deepening into flaming reds just before they give way to zillions of bright sparkling stars.
Dave’s property was abundant with lovely old-growth pink and white-flowered rhododendrons. Each clustering bouquet beckons hummingbirds and bees to gather the goodness from its deep succulent recesses. Standing with the rhododendrons were magnificent madrona trees, guarding Rosario’s rugged coastline. Their dark rosy bark peels off in thin sheets, revealing smooth, firm limbs underneath. Their laterally spreading evergreen crowns, with shiny leaves and white flowers, have edible berries the color of a flaming sunset.
Native Americans found the bark useful in making a reddish-brown dye for color designing their clothing, mats, and ceramics. The graceful lines of the madrona tree inspire the people of the Lummi Indian Nation as they use the wood for dwellings and sturdy furniture. The smooth wood requires little polishing, save that of oiled hands, which carefully rub the limbs to a fine finish. One particularly magnificent madrona tree on Dave’s cliff line seemed to possess a greater strength as it stood staunchly against the battering elements of wind and sea.
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Ode to the Beautiful Madrona Tree O Tree, you glorious evergreen, How firm and smooth your russet skin. With careful thought and gentle touch, I lay my hand upon your limb. Upon your spreading regal crown, Kissed with the morning’s misty dew, Delicate clustered urns are found That reflects the sun’s flaming hue. So many gifts of love you bring, You nourish bird and crawling thing. Yet, ‘tis of God to strengthen trees With thundering gales and raging seas. But now, I rest me of this day And in your arms, hushed quiet lay. |
The Healing of Scars
In our separate worlds of solitude, both Dave and I found Rosario Beach, with all its elements of peace, to be a beautiful place to live, an emotionally and spiritually healing place to live.
When Dave stepped into our lives, I was not looking for any bright, bold, or new adventures. I just wanted to listen to the water lapping against the shore and feel the cool breeze caress me as I sought to regain emotional strength.
The real joy of my life was my son, Ronnie. My two-year-old toddler captured my heart and completely enchanted me. I reveled in revisiting my own childhood through his bright-eyed sense of wonder. Those were the best times—sharing all the delights of amazement and awe with little Ronnie, my tide pool kidlette. Running along the beach at wobbly toddler speed, he would hurry to the tide pools and then silently squat down to better enjoy a wonderland of little snails, black spiny sea urchins, tiny fish, and miniature sea monsters.
The smell of the ocean breeze put a charge in our romping. We had fun mimicking the cry of the seagulls. We were thrilled to see great bald eagles dive-bombing for salmon and then soaring into the sky with their prey, dripping a rainbow of water. On rare occasions, we spied playful sea otters lying on their backs skillfully prying open a clam or mussel shell. If we were fortunate, we might see a pod of black and white orca whales playing tag as they navigated to one of their secret deep-water meeting places in Puget Sound.
We pitched rocks into the water until we were exhausted. Then as the day began to close, my little kidlette and I would snuggle up against a piece of driftwood and watch as the setting sun cast sparkling diamonds on the sea. These simple joys were the wealth of our lives.
I was becoming a reclusive lady, contentedly sequestered away along the shores of Rosario Beach. My first husband, Ron, died tragically. I didn't believe that I needed another relationship. I had no yearning for my destiny to reach any farther than the horizon of the San Juan Islands. To best explain me, I related to a sea anemone. When confident, I could open and spread my arms widely, but in my fragility, I closed up tightly.
Dave Rahm, courageously and compassionately stepped into our world. He was not only a good listener, but he also offered healing wisdom that he had gained from his own journey of recovery. It was a salve for my grieving heart.
Locked in my own personal tug-of-war, I wanted to remain distant from the difficulties of his personal life as he regained his balance from a broken marriage. On one hand, I wanted to hunker down and keep my world closed to outsiders, and on the other, I was grateful that he drew me out of my shell and helped me learn to laugh and enjoy life again.
In our separate worlds of solitude, both Dave and I found Rosario Beach, with all its elements of peace, to be a beautiful place to live, an emotionally and spiritually healing place to live.
When Dave stepped into our lives, I was not looking for any bright, bold, or new adventures. I just wanted to listen to the water lapping against the shore and feel the cool breeze caress me as I sought to regain emotional strength.
The real joy of my life was my son, Ronnie. My two-year-old toddler captured my heart and completely enchanted me. I reveled in revisiting my own childhood through his bright-eyed sense of wonder. Those were the best times—sharing all the delights of amazement and awe with little Ronnie, my tide pool kidlette. Running along the beach at wobbly toddler speed, he would hurry to the tide pools and then silently squat down to better enjoy a wonderland of little snails, black spiny sea urchins, tiny fish, and miniature sea monsters.
The smell of the ocean breeze put a charge in our romping. We had fun mimicking the cry of the seagulls. We were thrilled to see great bald eagles dive-bombing for salmon and then soaring into the sky with their prey, dripping a rainbow of water. On rare occasions, we spied playful sea otters lying on their backs skillfully prying open a clam or mussel shell. If we were fortunate, we might see a pod of black and white orca whales playing tag as they navigated to one of their secret deep-water meeting places in Puget Sound.
We pitched rocks into the water until we were exhausted. Then as the day began to close, my little kidlette and I would snuggle up against a piece of driftwood and watch as the setting sun cast sparkling diamonds on the sea. These simple joys were the wealth of our lives.
I was becoming a reclusive lady, contentedly sequestered away along the shores of Rosario Beach. My first husband, Ron, died tragically. I didn't believe that I needed another relationship. I had no yearning for my destiny to reach any farther than the horizon of the San Juan Islands. To best explain me, I related to a sea anemone. When confident, I could open and spread my arms widely, but in my fragility, I closed up tightly.
Dave Rahm, courageously and compassionately stepped into our world. He was not only a good listener, but he also offered healing wisdom that he had gained from his own journey of recovery. It was a salve for my grieving heart.
Locked in my own personal tug-of-war, I wanted to remain distant from the difficulties of his personal life as he regained his balance from a broken marriage. On one hand, I wanted to hunker down and keep my world closed to outsiders, and on the other, I was grateful that he drew me out of my shell and helped me learn to laugh and enjoy life again.