Sometimes it’s the salt and how it lingers in the air like a lost lover. Sometimes it’s the sound of the waves lapping at the shore and the rhythm they adopt as the moon drives them into the distance. Sometimes it’s the dull ache that forces its way into my bones as I stand in the shallows and forget where I am. I’ve lost track of all the moments that have pulled me back to the sea, of all the ways in which I’ve felt held by the horizon. Once I’m there, however, they all come seeping back into me — all these salty moments of mine.

Earlier this summer, I found myself pulled over on the side of the highway in Oregon, trying and failing to muster up the will to exit my truck and deal with the 110-degree weather that is becoming far too common in the Pacific Northwest.  Blissfully unaware of the hellscape awaiting us outside of the air-conditioned vehicle, my dog stared at me with that soul-wrenching look that only he can give.  As we sat there, silently negotiating our plans for the day, I made an executive decision-- It was way too hot for a dog to be out hiking and we needed to be somewhere where it wasn’t.

In search of a contingency plan, I pulled up a weather map and searched for somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t the same shade of deep red as the area in which I was parked.  To my disbelief, the heatwave had swallowed the entirety of the Northwest and, according to some allegedly qualified meteorologist, it wouldn’t be letting up any time soon.  As I scanned the crimson topography, the promise of cooler weather breathed life into a new trajectory as a tiny sliver of blue threw itself in front of my eyes.  In that moment, we were instantly en route to the coldest place in the Pacific Northwest— Port Townsend, Washington.

Perched atop the Northeastern tip of the Olympic Peninsula, Port Townsend is as pleasantly weird as it is historic. A harbor town through and through, Port Townsend is intrinsically connected to the Puget Sound, the entrance of which it guards. The Sound, a glassy inlet of the Pacific Ocean, is steeped with the casual character of maritime culture and all of the grit and gristle that I’ve grown to admire in the folks that call it home. It’s a place where the morning begins when the gulls start screaming and life is governed by the gentle cadence of the tides. It’s a place where even the most landlocked denizens, never having set foot on a boat, have a deep and well-worn relationship with the sea. It’s the kind of place in which almost anyone can find something to hold on to, which is why a quick jaunt up north turned into five weeks of me trying to find a reason to let go.