Alaskan & Western Reflections

by Jerry Dale McDonnnell©2013 Published in Over the Transom #24, 2014 He said he was an Indian, American Indian. It was San Francisco. North Beach. Said he lived here. His family born here. Had lived here for generations long before the Spanish gold seekers trekking north stumbled on to it. Before any sailors of yore found the entrance to San Francisco Bay. Aye matey, North Beach, once the old Barbary Coast, shanghaiing skippers, wheelers, dealers, hookers and snookers. Why the hell not an Indian? Davy was skeptical of most things. He trusted tides and sudden squalls more than people. “He looks Indian, but he may be just bullshitting us for the beer,” Davy said one eye closed, first finger pointing at the Indian We’d been buying the beer. I wanted to hear this Indian’s story. It was almost November. A couple of days before the crab season opened. Davy and I had our boat docked in Sausalito ready to sail. Crab pots, 120 of them, on the deck, ready to set. A Wednesday night...

          by  Jerry Dale McDonnell©2014 Published in MungBeing #56 2014       The ceiling was low; the Cessna 170 was bucking like a bull with a money rider on its back. Steve, the pilot, swooped low one time over the slanted beach tilting toward a wind stirred water that slapped waves onto the narrow edge of Cook Inlet. Satisfied that driftwood wasn’t an issue on the sand runway that existed only by the grace of a low tide, Steve swung around to make a landing.   On the turn I counted two brown bears in the sedge clearing about one-quarter mile from the beach. The aircraft touched down a bit hard due to a sudden gust of wind off the port wing, which set us down close to wild water. I was glad Steve was the pilot or else we might have gone surfing encompassed in this metal box designed for flight not float. It was a good landing on a bad day. I was home for the season.         I usually don’t have b...