In Homer I caught up with my friend Damion, who I had met on the ferry. I hardly knew him. This became alarming on the first day when I realised I was about to camp out on a remote beach, in
the snow, in the back of a truck, with a guy I had known for two and a half days on a ferry to Alaska. It was then I made some joke to him about not knowing him, and for all I knew he collected guns! Ha ha. It was then he admitted that he did in fact collect guns.
I was shocked. I tried to be open-minded about it, and asked, 'Ok, one question though, do you have any guns in the car?'.
'No' He laughed. But not comfortably. I repeated the question,
'No, really Damion, do you have any guns in the car?'
'Yeah. One'.
Dark is falling as we arrive at Clam Gulch. Snow is flurrying around, and the moose have retreated into the forest to bed down for the night. We have driven the truck (yanks call big utes with covered trays on the back, Trucks) up on the deserted beach. We collect frozen wood for our fire and Damion attempts to get the stove going for dinner. No go. Stove doesn't work. I'm thinking about how he's the quiet type - doesn't say much. I'm thinking about an article I read on the ferry trip, while I was sitting next to Damion, about a loon who went nuts and shot a whole lot of people. Everyone said he was the quiet type - didn't talk much. I'm thinking about my first night in Spain a few years ago when I found myself camping on a deserted beach with a randy Belgian that didn't understand the meaning of no until it had been forcefully repeated ad nauseum, and how I'd sworn to myself never to put myself in that situation ever again.
Turns out, I got lucky once more. Perhaps I am an alright judge of character. Damion is The Perfect Gentleman. Morning arrives and I climb out of the truck, happily unmolested.
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