On a mostly sunny Wednesday back in October I found myself sitting on a log in Myrtle Edwards Park looking out over the water, unsure of why exactly I was there. I was trying to find Elliot Bay Park, but it turns out they're the same place (changed from Elliot Bay to Myrtle Edwards in 1976, but all the signs in the park still say Elliot Bay Park). I had come over to the West Queen Anne neighborhood to stop at a place called Mustapha’s Fine Moroccan Food Importers for some preserved lemons I needed to try out making my own chicken/olive tajine. I had expected dim lighting, Moroccan themed carpets and other decorations, and if I was lucky, a thickly mustachioed Moroccan man with whom I could reminisce about the places I had been in his country. Instead I found a small gray office and a squat blonde woman who brought me the jar out of storage in the back. I guess they’re more of an internet supplier than an atmospheric North African shop, my mistake.
After that I got back in my car to find the park. Over a bridge, around some corners, into a industrial warehouse district, these all seemed to indicate that I had gone the wrong way, until I pulled into a parking lot that marked the beginning of Elliot Bay Trail/Terminal 91 Bike Path.
A thin strip of grass and path, Myrtle Edwards Park straddles Elliot Bay. A steep incline of rocks and driftwood slopes down to cold saltwater, the Sound stretching off into the distance, mid day sun casting a blinding sheen over the view. I set off down the path heading south, to see what this place is all about, and who like me has decided to spend the afternoon here.
It might be just because it’s the middle of a work day, but this park seems to have attracted the pensive, lone thoughtful type, and today I am no exception. An old Asian man in a canary yellow sweatshirt and turquoise sweatpants glides past me on rollerblades, his arms folded neatly behind his back. A man in heavy work clothes, thick brown boots and a baseball cap sits on a bench. He holds his head in his hands, staring intently at a single spot in the grass. Further down the path a punk girl decked out in a spiky jean jacket, covered in band patches maybe in her late twenties sits in the grass. With her are two nearly identical black and white boxers, who look up quizzically at me as I pass by. Her bright red and green hair stands in a tall Mowhawk. She's lost in thought.
I had taken the day off work for no real reason besides an inability to stand the thought of going to Everett that morning, and also to give myself lots of empty time in which to worry and gnaw my brain over the CTscan I was getting the next day, for which I also called off work. Here by myself at the park, I have all the time I need to ponder all the horrible or wonderful things that could happen in my immediate future.
There is an immense red and black tanker parked in the water just ten or fifteen feet from the shore, a small metal bridge linking it to the service road that crosses the pedestrian path and enters the huge concrete processing plant beyond the park. The side of the ship says Ecoan Company, but I can’t figure out what cargo the boat's carrying. There is a big sign on the ship that reads, NO SMOKING. Maybe it’s something flammable like coal. A three story system of scaffolding stands next to the ship, encasing a system of chutes and tubes connecting ship to building.
I find a big piece of driftwood here near the ship, a nice spot to take in the surroundings. A long line of little black and white water birds, Surf Scoters, are paddling single file towards the ship. A steady stream of water spews from both sides of the boat. The birds are collecting here. Maybe there are some little invertebrates in that bilge water being flushed out the hull, something birds like to eat. Ten or fifteen minutes pass and they form the same orderly line, heading back out to open water.
I didn’t know what to expect from the next day. The CTscan could have shown me a cancerous festering in my chest, a final explanation for that constant, dark pain down in there I don’t understand and still can’t be rid of. I’ve pictured it; a crusty black sphere hidden under unfolding layers of book paper, an image that came to me one night half-awake, furiously trying to fall asleep. The idea of cancer was quickly dismissed by the test results, leaving me with my doubt only stronger than before. But that day the prospect of it felt very real. The thought was terrifying, but there in the sun, by the water I could look at it clearly, with less fear than sitting in our little apartment watching TV or at my sloppy desk in a windowless office.
I put myself in pretty places to make my days feel grander, my thoughts more important, my problems more titanic. Adding weight to my reality makes things more like a book I’ve read, a movie I’ve seen, one of the thousand things I use to construct myself. An elderly couple walks by my bleached white piece of driftwood, and I’m thinking about how no one else can know me like I know me, even those I know well. No one else can know all the things I’ve ever thought about but never talked about. Everyone has some degree of inner life which never leaves the inside of their head.
A big group of pigeons has settled onto the flat top of the ship’s scaffolding chute, bobbing their necks and cooing softly. They all take to the air in unison, flapping frantically away. They saw the falcon much sooner than I did. I turn in the direction of their fear and see a Peregrine Falcon, the dark brown head and spotted chest unmistakeable, careening in like an arrow from above the processing plant. The pigeons realize that landing isn’t yet an option as the falcon gains on them, and they fly higher, trying to stay in a cluster. Still several of them fall behind. The falcon picks out the stragglers and makes a B-line through the air, but isn’t quite fast enough. The stragglers catch up to the rest of the flock, and the falcon has lost his burst. He flies up to the top of the chute, sitting alone where the whole flock of pigeons had been moments before. They come to rest on the highest part of the boat, down at the opposite end. They cautiously resume their bobbing, their gazes still fixed on their would-be-killer across the way.
I’ve left the driftwood and walked down the path, finding a spot where the scaffolding tower blocks out the sun and lets me look clearly at the falcon. I saw one before, but it was almost a year ago over on the Olympic Peninsula, and never hunting. It’s plain to see he hasn’t given up yet, simply gathering strength for another go.
He dives off the chute, tucking his wings into a tight V and speeding across the gap between them. They’re off the boat almost as fast, flying up and over me toward the processing plant. His attempts at chase are less effective this time, he doesn’t come as close to catching the slowest of them. The first time he had the element of surprise. They come back to rest on top of the scaffolding where they started, understanding that he is no longer a threat. The falcon flies off towards downtown, to his high roost somewhere among the updrafts and skyscrapers, to look for another meal.
When you’re a kid, you think about what kind of animal you want to be. I’d be willing to guess many of you picked a predator, a tiger, a cheetah, a wolf, a shark. Predators are awesome it’s true, and many of them are extremely intelligent, graceful, horrifying, and beautiful like that Peregrine Falcon. But we forget how hard it is to catch your own dinner. I’ve never done it, and the humans who do it use guns, or the more badass one’s bow n’ arrows. That falcon put all his energy into catching one of those stupid pigeons and came up with nothing. Too many times like that and he’s dead, and maybe the chicks waiting back in the nest if both he and his wife come back empty taloned. The pigeons, they might get eaten occasionally, or hit by a bus, but they can peck at whatever garbagey-foodscraps they find. They don’t have to chase down hive-minded, elusive prey in order to eat. Sometimes, being a pigeon sounds nice and cushy.
I walk another mile or so down the path to a sign that tells me I am leaving Myrtle Edwards Park. The area still looks like a park, still feels like a park, but apparently it is no longer a park, just an undeveloped green area with walking and biking paths. A sign up ahead tells me I'll soon enter the Olympic sculpture garden, but I think that's something best saved for another day.
As I walk back it's getting closer to five, and the park feels more lively. The punk girl with the two boxers is now joined by her equally punked out boyfriend, both of them talking to the dogs in cutesy voices that might diminish their cred if someone heard. Three teenagers in shorts are playing scrabble on the grass, and there's some good words on the board. There's a fishing pier close to the parking lot, a jetty sticking out into the bay. Three or four fisherman are sitting their silently watching the water, while their stereo plays a Mariah Carey song. A belted kingfisher flies up from below, lands on the jetty's railing across from me. He cackles a few times, and swoops back off.
I feel stronger after taking in the sun, being outside with my thoughts. Now, back to my life.
