God Provides

A couple of weeks ago, I took my students to the beach, 60 feet from the front door of the school. We all took a pencil along with lined paper and a clipboard. We found comfortable places to perch, and wrote, just wrote, for 20 minutes. This was the result from my own clipboard...

William, walking on driftwood logs

1^st Period

It’s chilly outside, 45 degrees with a breeze coming off of the sea ice floating in the distance. Life slows down. I focus on the here and now.

John wanders up the beach 50 yards and finds the perfect stump, blown in with the waves, to sit on and reflect and write on his plastic, orange clipboard borrowed from the Science teacher. Having ridden his bike from the school to the beach, or at least I assume it’s his bike, he now disappears into the sand and driftwood, reappearing 15 minutes later throwing rocks into the sea, a neverending sport.

William paces back and forth, kicking the sand, pausing occasionally to jot something down on his clipboard. He’s restless, making fun of the fact that we are only 10 steps from school, saying that this feels like a city trip because we can still hear the rumble of a tractor in the distance and the bub-bub of a 4-wheeler passing on the road behind us. I laugh to myself.

Tairin, laying at the water's edge

Meanwhile, the plaintive call of a loon in the distance mingles with the stern caw from a large, black crow supervising us from the top of a 12-foot pile of driftwood peeled smooth by the sea. They join us in our outdoor writing assignment.  

POP POP – 12-gauge shotgun in the distance. Geese, ducks, swans, and cranes are the prey of the day.

Tairin moves to the edge of the water and lies in the sand as the calm sea gives him inspiration. No waves today, only ripples from the wind.

Kyley sits, shivering on a log in the shadow of the rock sea wall as the seagulls sit in pairs on the blue water, 20 feet apart, reminding me of the pair that Tairin and Kyley are, drifting along, together but apart.

Kyley, ready to go inside

As a single-prop plane engine fades over the mountains, William plays baseball with driftwood and walks the logs like a balance beam, restless. Soon, Tairin stands, and he and William begin skipping rocks across the surface of this arctic water, songbirds start chirping, and I slowly sip the warm coffee from my insulated mug.

Quietly, Christa sits just down the white-washed log from me, filling her pink paper with words and sipping something warm from her own travel mug.

The splash of the boys’ rocks brings the seagulls closer, circling in the air now, hoping the sound is from fish near the surface; their lonesome call eerily matches the vastness of the ocean before us.

Time to head in.

2^nd Period

The noisy upper-classmen assault the beach with their loud talking, laughing, spitting, coughing, and throwing large pieces of wood into the water trying to tag a dead fish floating just outside of their reach.

Finally! All are settled, silently writing their thoughts, fears, random niceties. Even in their unwillingness to be serious, they give themselves away, revealing blaring insecurities and secret wishes.

I choose a log close to the water’s edge this time; all students are behind me, so that I can focus on my natural surroundings like the perfect ripple patterns spreading out from the shore, blending seamlessly with the stippled water beyond stirred by the breeze. The current is flowing north, bringing the sea ice up from St. Michael, on the southern shore of the Norton Sound. A pair of seagulls, perhaps the same pair that I saw an hour ago, drift silently north with the movement of the sea.

The sand flies buzz in a quick and lurching maze across the top of the wet sand, landing on my left hand holding the clipboard as my right scribbles blue notes across a green page. This is in sharp contrast to the soft, lapping sound of the ice cold water against the pebble-ridden sand… or are they sand-ridden pebbles?

Pile of hay

Near the water’s edge is a pile of hay the size of a compact car, no doubt from cleaning out doghouses in preparation for summer, waiting for the tide, which is as reliable as Kirstian’s love for cheese (a senior heading off to UAF to study Wildlife Biology – the only person to give me a Valentine this year).

The sunny, pale blue sky turns azure overhead and then fades to soft grey, feathery clouds on the horizon. It overlooks the icebergs in the distance, slowly passing by. I heard that the ice may blow to shore this weekend when the weather changes.

3^rd Period

Today, ethereal Besboro Island looks like it’s floating above the water. The ridgeline of it is reminiscent of an Easter Island statue laying on it’s back, head jutting out to sea. From Unalakleet’s beach, the Isle is the color of deep lapis with amber flecks and streaks. A long cloud hovers above, protectively. Sloping down to the sea, its forehead is high and proud. Besboro is most often referred to in student stories about how to survive a zombie apocalypse, being a safe haven to hide out and start over.

Besboro Island

A small skiff with a noisy outboard motor rumbes past, headed straight for the sea ice, seal hunting, no doubt. The sound fades into the clouds long after the boat is out of sight.  

This morning’s wind has faded and the shoreline is now glass, the current out from shore more apparent in its journey north.

Sand grasses are turning green early this year. A welcome end to a light winter for now, but foreshadowing an uncertain future for the Arctic way of life.

Four seagulls fly over, headed south, chirping and crying as gentle waves from the long gone boat make it to shore in an even pattern matching the sheets billowing in the tender breeze on a nearby clothesline strung between two poles of grey driftwood. The sun is hot on my back, signaling to me that there will be no need for a jacket after lunch and reminding me of the tanned faces of my bird hunter students.

4^th period (2 hours later)

My class full of freshman, but almost not freshman anymore, is always a lively bunch. Today is no different. As the students aptly put it, “God provided us with a beaver.”

The wind has picked up, blowing from the north, and clouds are moving in. I can see rainstorms in the distance, vertical swatches of dark gray from sky to ground, looking like smeared watercolors.

Allie is late for class because her boyfriend shot a black goose at lunch. Hunting, fishing, subsistence activities never stop; they ebb and flow with the seasons and the tides.

Proud hunter

The world is in a constant state of flux, of change. Movement. The boys are calling goose and ducks with sounds deep from their chest, honed through a lifetime, many lifetimes of experience. Gentle waves, no more than six inches high, are rolling in against the already wet sand, making a calm rush to the shore, coming from the northwest, coming from Russia. The ice flow has moved further out to sea since this morning. It is barely visible, now. A dozen seagulls are flying overhead, back and forth, noisily screeching, distracting me from my writing and causing me to look up and down the beach toward the sand bar where the blue water turns brown. I stretch my hands, fingers sore from the icy wind.

The southern coast of the Norton Sound is visible from my seat on the log, 40 miles or more away. Feathery clouds from earlier are now a pillowy cotton, thrown here and there across the sky, blown by the breath of ancestral spirits as they watch over us. It provides a sense of anticipation. Peace. Safety. It’s a new beginning for me and I’m filled with thankfulness and strength as I enter this chapter, finally home. Looking around, I wish Nali were here; soon, Nuka will join us.

Duncan and Evelyn carry the beaver

My students are running, playing, chasing on the sand bar. This is how school should be. My phone rings for a second time. I didn’t recognize the number so I didn’t answer it the first time. It’s a local Unalakleet number, so I answer the second time. It’s Evelyn, calling me from the sandbar because it’s several hundred yards away and I can’t even see the students clearly.

“It’s a beaver. Oh! He’s killing the beaver!” laughter and squeals surround her and I hear her smiling on the other end of the phone.

I’m confused. “What? No! Don’t kill anything!” I exclaim, now just able to make out a student picking up a log from the beach and running up the sandbar.

He swings. Once. Twice. Then, corrals it in toward shore with the far end of the log.

“He got it! He killed a beaver! Duncan killed a beaver!”

Admiring the tail

As the line disconnects, I’m speechless. A thousand thoughts are swirling through my head. Is this legal? They are natives. Am I going to get in trouble? I shouldn’t have let them go that far down the beach. I should have gone with them. I’m a horrible supervisor. I can’t believe this just happened. It was just a simple writing assignment. Holy shit, my student just killed a beaver during English class! What are the chances?! Here they come.

Evelyn and Duncan are carrying the beaver together, each holding a back leg. The beaver is hanging upside down, big, flat, leathery tail flopping over with each step they take. They resemble couple of parents holding the hands of a two-year old who has turned into a limp dishrag, as they often do, swinging, legs suspended. Smiles are everywhere. Duncan is visibly puffed up, looking bigger than when he walked down the beach, proud, seasoned, a provider at 15.

Breathless, Evelyn explains, "It offered itself to Duncan! It just swam right up and offered itself! The elders always tell us that God provides and He really did!"

“So, now what? What are you going to do with it?” I ask, hoping to hide the evidence before the principal gets wind of what just happened.

“Skin it. Take it home and eat it. Use the fur for a new hat,” he replies, incredulous that I don’t already have an understanding of what to do with a dead beaver.

I touch the reptilian tail. I’ve never been this close to a beaver before.

Word spread through the school like wildfire. Duncan was a superhero, king of the hill, a true hunter. I was definitely not in trouble. I’m the cool teacher. It enhances my reputation, as well. In this land of Eskimos, it is good to be a teacher. It is a good life.