I’m going to tell you something about Ketchikan that no one knows: the clouds are drippy faucets in clever marshmallow costumes.

A few years ago I fell in love with John Green. He writes Youth Fiction and The Fault in our Stars is his most popular book. It will always be my favorite.

After I found him, I read everything else he wrote (except for a few). I read “Looking for Alaska.” The book has it’s really strong passages, but it left me wanting his first book. It’s hard not to fall in love with your first book from a new author.

But the title, Looking for Alaska, it came to me several times throughout summer. I’d stand on the dock and remember that I am looking at Alaska. I. am. Looking. At. Alaska. I am not looking for it, I am here.

In my other favorite book (it’s a short list) The History of Love by Nicole Krauss, there is a conversation:

“What about you? Are you happiest and saddest right now than you’ve ever been?” “Of course I am.” “Why?” “Because nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me sadder than you.”

After you’ve spent a chunk of your time on an island, and you see eagled mountains every day but you’re crowded by tourists with twister spinners for brains, it can start to feel repetitive and small.

But let this be written in the tablet of your heart:

you CANNOT COMPLAIN ABOUT REPEAT MOUNTAIN MORNINGS. Exhaustion, yes. Over your coworkers? Yes. Tired of dead fish smell? You are human. But the words ‘I am so sick of these gorgeous mountains as I watch the mist lift off of them as they pay deference to a greater brilliance: the glorious sun. And I hate walking by harbor seals.’ If you said it, you’d be the first. 

On most nights rain drops whisper in your ears as they hit the leaves and lull you to rest. It’s not a commanding rain, it’s a multitude of droplets greeting leaves. They make a light tapping sound as if to say: “Knock Knock Leaf. I don’t want to disturb you. Can I sit on your roof?”

It’s true, not all of the seasonals loved it. I was really lucky, my friend told me about Allen Marine. If I had had a stupid job with a stupid company (there are a lot) then I wouldn’t have loved it like I did. I know that. I’m sure of it. Working with good people is the best thing. 

Flying from Ketchikan, the guy to my left worked for Taquan (the float planes). He asked me what I did for the summer. I could see the space in his ears where the gauges used to be. I didn’t want to talk about it much. I was leaving.

I got to Atlanta. 

I saw cock roaches. I was eaten alive by mosquitoes. I hadn’t seen a roach or gotten a mosquito bite all summer.

We went to Lake Acworth for my mom’s birthday.

We floated in the water and wondered what our lives will be like in 5 years.

We went fishing that night. We brought cute little poles that my mom bought from Walmart or somewhere. 

I looked out at the water and started to cry, tears streaming down my face. 

When you leave Alaska, don’t go fishing in Lake Acworth.

It’s the saddest thing of all time. The guy to our right had chicken liver and kept catching tiny catfish, one right after the other. 

We didn’t catch anything. We went home. 

I got on the cab ride from Houston-Bush to the Hotel. Peace Corps would be “Staging” us there. 

All I could talk about was Alaska. All I could feel was Alaska. 

It’s the hardest place to leave.

In 2010 I read a book about Looking for Alaska. Now I am writing my own.
I will never stop looking.