I of the storm
If I could pick a song quote to begin this post, it would be "I of the storm" by Of Monsters and Men, the Alex Somers remix. In fact, I recommend you listen to the song while reading this post. Find it here.
Listen to the distant bird calls and the mysterious crackling sounds. Breathe in the voices that come and go like a vapor. Open your ears to the vast, dusk-colored emptiness that is this song.
This song is what it sounded like as my ship steamed south from the Arctic, and large red jellyfish dotted the sea surface, which was glassy and eerily calm. R/V Polarstern, August 2011.
This song is what it sounded like when I sat on a box of life jackets the night before a cruise and wrote a long letter to a friend by the port lights. NOAA ship Nancy Foster, September 2012.
This song is what it sounded like when I laid on the deck with JB and LR and saw ten shooting stars in an hour. R/V Thomas Thompson, May 2014.
This song is what it sounded like as I sat in my empty room on my last night in Norway and couldn't fall asleep. Stavanger, February 2015.
This song is what it sounded like when my shipmates and fellow grad students gathered on the bow in the dark to watch bioluminescent diatoms light up the waves. R/V Atlantis, July 2015.
This song is what it sounded like when my classmates and I sat on the roof of our dorm and watched the aurora borealis. Svalbard, October 2015.
This song is what it sounded like the one time I got up the nerve to drive to Cape Arago by myself after dark and just stare out at the vast, dusk-colored emptiness. Oregon, March 2016.
And this song sounds like tonight, as I stand at my kitchen window and wish I could climb up to the roof. This song sounds like the calm that follows a heated battle, like the rest that comes after a fight. It sounds like breathing the crisp night air and looking up at the stars. This song sounds like endings and goodbyes, and it sounds like leaving Coos Bay.
Tomorrow, I will pack up my car and leave this place for the very last time. I wasn't sure how I would feel tonight, but I'm actually quite calm. You know, I decided that when people ask me how long I lived in Oregon, I'm going to answer them "off and on for four years." The truth is that I've traveled more in grad school than most people do in a lifetime - heck, I even moved away to Norway and then came back. Of the 1,552 days that I've rented my apartment in Coos Bay, I was away from it for 645 of them. That's 41.5%, and yes, I actually calculated it all out.
Coos Bay has been my resting place for four years, my place to stay between trips. But it was also a place that I grew, a place that I learned. Coos Bay tested me and stretched me in ways I never expected and never thought I could handle, but hey, that's grad school, right? My opinions of this place have been all over the map, but I can say this: for better or for worse, I lived in Coos Bay, Oregon. I learned in Coos Bay; I cried in Coos Bay; I failed and succeeded and stretched and grew and became a better person for it.
And they call me under
And I'm shaking like a leaf
Goodbye, Coos Bay.
Listen to the distant bird calls and the mysterious crackling sounds. Breathe in the voices that come and go like a vapor. Open your ears to the vast, dusk-colored emptiness that is this song.
This song is what it sounded like as my ship steamed south from the Arctic, and large red jellyfish dotted the sea surface, which was glassy and eerily calm. R/V Polarstern, August 2011.
This song is what it sounded like when I sat on a box of life jackets the night before a cruise and wrote a long letter to a friend by the port lights. NOAA ship Nancy Foster, September 2012.
This song is what it sounded like when I laid on the deck with JB and LR and saw ten shooting stars in an hour. R/V Thomas Thompson, May 2014.
This song is what it sounded like as I sat in my empty room on my last night in Norway and couldn't fall asleep. Stavanger, February 2015.
This song is what it sounded like when my shipmates and fellow grad students gathered on the bow in the dark to watch bioluminescent diatoms light up the waves. R/V Atlantis, July 2015.
This song is what it sounded like when my classmates and I sat on the roof of our dorm and watched the aurora borealis. Svalbard, October 2015.
This song is what it sounded like the one time I got up the nerve to drive to Cape Arago by myself after dark and just stare out at the vast, dusk-colored emptiness. Oregon, March 2016.
And this song sounds like tonight, as I stand at my kitchen window and wish I could climb up to the roof. This song sounds like the calm that follows a heated battle, like the rest that comes after a fight. It sounds like breathing the crisp night air and looking up at the stars. This song sounds like endings and goodbyes, and it sounds like leaving Coos Bay.
Tomorrow, I will pack up my car and leave this place for the very last time. I wasn't sure how I would feel tonight, but I'm actually quite calm. You know, I decided that when people ask me how long I lived in Oregon, I'm going to answer them "off and on for four years." The truth is that I've traveled more in grad school than most people do in a lifetime - heck, I even moved away to Norway and then came back. Of the 1,552 days that I've rented my apartment in Coos Bay, I was away from it for 645 of them. That's 41.5%, and yes, I actually calculated it all out.
Coos Bay has been my resting place for four years, my place to stay between trips. But it was also a place that I grew, a place that I learned. Coos Bay tested me and stretched me in ways I never expected and never thought I could handle, but hey, that's grad school, right? My opinions of this place have been all over the map, but I can say this: for better or for worse, I lived in Coos Bay, Oregon. I learned in Coos Bay; I cried in Coos Bay; I failed and succeeded and stretched and grew and became a better person for it.
And they call me under
And I'm shaking like a leaf
Goodbye, Coos Bay.
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