The Door Into Winter

Caleta Tortel – Puerto Eden, Chile

When I was, say, ten or eleven years old I was on a big kick of reading science fiction and fantasy books. The Xanth books – by Piers Anthony; the Lord of the Rings (The Hobbit was great; the others were too ponderous if you ask me – sorry Tolkien fans . . .); Ursula K. LeGuinn, Madeline L’Engle, etc. 

Robert Heinlein had a novella that I remember liking quite a bit: The Door Into Summer. It’s all a little cloudy now – Diana says that I have a mind like a sieve because I can never remember the details of anything – but I remember something about a house with multiple doors and a cat. I think the cat was always going to the different doors and demanding to go out. But if the weather was not good he would just go on to the next door – because he had decided that one of the doors must lead to warm weather: the door into summer . . .

That story has come back into my mind recently because I feel like Diana and I have it even more wrong than the cat. Maybe the confusion arises from our sense of direction. In Minnesota, there is no question – north leads to cold, south to warm. And, for the first probably 5,000 miles of our journey, this all held true. We were heading south, and if it wasn’t getting warmer, it was, at least, not getting colder – even though time was marching toward winter: September, October, November, December . . . And then there was another 3,000 miles or so in the equatorial zone where it made no difference – go north or south – it doesn’t matter . . . it’s going to be warm everywhere . . .

Only very recently have things started to change – quite radically. The cold nights. The cold days. The shorter days. The snow-capped peaks. The changing of the leaves. 

It all adds up. 

We have, apparently, found the door into winter . . .

Anyway, as I recall it was a good book . . .

But I’m not sure the winter version is quite as captivating. Much as I love the colder season for the snow and the skiing and the silence, it just seems like most people are trying to find that door into sunlight and warmth . . .

Speaking of finding the door into winter, we boarded the ferry last night. 

It’s been a great experience so far. Beautiful views. Cozy cabin. And we’ve been winning the impromptu, and, unofficial – but very, very real – game of musical chairs. 

There are 142 seats on the boat. Some are much better than others. Some have windows with great views. Some don’t. Some have seat backs that recline all the way for sleeping. Some, like the ones we were originally assigned, sit in front of lockers. The seats hit the lockers before they are fully reclined – meaning sleeping is significantly compromised. 

Now, if you are ever in a team-musical-chairs situation, and you have a choice, you will want to be on Diana’s team. If you don’t know that, you probably don’t really know Diana that well . . .

The music is playing, everyone – including a number of small children – are walking around in the circle, and they pull one of the chairs. From that point forward everyone else in the circle becomes the enemy. Because there are not enough seats; and all these other people want your chair . . .

Now, most of us adults will concede a little bit to make sure a young child gets a seat. Not Diana. When the music stops there’s generally some chaos and no one really notices what any one individual does. But if you watch Diana carefully during that two-second scramble you’ll see all of her New York-ness coming out . . .

Diana and Tiny Tim are both heading for that one chair at the same time. Tiny Tim goes to sit down – and just as he’s about to find safety with his little tush on the chair, Diana will swoop in with a swift hip check. Before he knows what happened, Tiny Tim’s tush connects with the floor – not the seat of the chair – and he’s out of the game. He starts crying and everyone feels a little bad for him. 

Or, almost everyone . . .

Diana? By this time she’s innocently sitting in the chair, as if nothing happened at all. 

But I’m not complaining. 

Because, as I said, this is team musical chairs – and the stakes are not just a lollipop for the last one sitting. No. We’re talking about our view of the orca that’s going to swim by the boat later today, and, more importantly, about the eight hours of sleep we are not going to get tonight because we were left with a seat in front of a locker. 

It was easy last night. After we boarded we realized that there were a bunch of perfectly good seats – that is, with a view and full reclining – that were not being used. 

Diana has none of our Midwest hesitation in such matters. The seat is empty; take it! (Or would you prefer to stand for the whole – 1.5 hour – subway trip that Diana had to endure in order to get to school and back when she was growing up . . .?)

We thought we were golden at that point – that is, when the boat was half-empty after we originally boarded. In a fit of seat gluttony, we even took an extra row for our luggage and stuff . . .

But, then, we realized today that there would be an additional twenty or so passengers getting on after we stopped at the tiny village of Puerto Eden. They would have real tickets for real seats – like the ones that we were sitting in . . . 

We all had to get off the boat at Puerto Eden. When we re-boarded we would see what, if anything, was still available – and our reality tv musical chairs episode would begin in earnest . . . 

Because we weren’t the only ones seeking better seats . . .

As we headed back onto the boat, Diana was quick to bark orders: “We’ll go scout it out. When we find something I’ll sit down and save the spot. You go get the luggage.”

I’m not sure what happened to Tiny Tim – hopefully he wasn’t thrown off the boat – but we ended up with some choice seats. Upper level. Prime window view. Fully reclining. Extra space for our luggage. 

Diana? She looks innocent as can be. 

A few more thoughts and observations about the ferry ride . . .

There is no cellular service and no wifi. It’s been great. 

We’ve been chatting with other passengers. It’s this thing that people used to do before social media. Instead of typing your pithy message and posting it on Instagram with your beautiful picture, you use your mouth to articulate your ideas. It’s a little more complicated because the person you are conversing with can respond in all kinds of different ways – and sometimes with complex constructs that you could almost never accomplish with emojis . . . And there’s no time to think of a witty response. You’re kind of expected to respond immediately . . .

This thing they call dialogue can be nice, but it’s definitely more intimate than we’re used to these days . . . I mean, the people you are communicating with are right there in front of you . . .

Personal space! Hello!

Sunrise was amazing, we saw this cool old shipwreck, we spotted a sea lion, the whole trip is through these cool fjords, and one of our new friends saw a dolphin. But no icebergs, glaciers, penguins or condors yet . . .

I’ll say this. Patagonia and Chile continue to amaze.