About Bonnie Henderson
Journalist and Hiker
Bonnie grew up hiking and backpacking with her family throughout Oregon and beyond. Her journalism career has included writing and editing for newspapers and magazines, developing interpretive panels for parks and wildlife refuges, and managing communications for nonprofits, including North Coast Land Conservancy. She remains an avid hiker and backpacker and trails advocate. She is the author of five books. Bonnie currently serves on the board of Trailkeepers of Oregon.
From Chapter 1, "The Next Tsunami: Living on a Restless Coast"
This night—Good Friday 1964—ten-year-old Tom stayed in. International Showtime had started a 7 p.m., and the whole family was watching TV—everyone but five-year-old David, who was already in bed, and Bobbie, who was around the corner in the kitchen, doing the last of the dinner dishes …
Then the circus scene vanished and a newscaster’s head and shoulders appeared. “We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin,” anchorman Chet Huntley intoned. “A massive earthquake has struck the state of Alaska approximately 45 minutes ago, at 5:37 p.m. Alaska Standard Time. At least five people are known dead, and property damage is extensive. The main street in Anchorage has been completely flattened, and the city is in darkness. Tidal waves have reportedly struck several coastal towns, but few details are available, as communication with the region has been almost entirely cut off. Civil defense authorities are warning coastal communities to the south to prepare for a possible tidal wave …”
Tidal wave? Tom looked around. None of his siblings seemed to be the least bit alarmed. Tidal wave, here? Well, Tom was a little alarmed. Someone should tell Mom at least. He got out of his chair and scrambled into the kitchen. “Mom? There’s going to be a tidal wave,” he told her matter-of-factly, standing next to her at the sink, looking up at her face in profile.
Bobbie didn’t respond, not right away. She continued to work at the dishes, running a soapy sponge around a greasy plate rim, turning the plate under a stream of water from the faucet, lodging it in the dish drainer to drip, reaching for another plate. Finally, eyes still on the sink full of dishes, she spoke. “Why don’t you go to bed,” she said. “Chris too.”
From Chapter 5, "Strand: An Odyssey of Pacific Ocean Debris"
By the time supper was over, John was ready to call it a night. Bryan, the twenty-year-old first mate, volunteered to take first watch. It didn’t really matter to John who took first watch. They all knew what to do and everybody knew the rules, or so John thought. Even Noland, the kid, still green after only a month or so aboard the Sanak. There wasn’t much to do; no one was to take it off autopilot without waking John. Thinking back later, it almost seemed to John as if he had posted his rules on the boat, though he knew he hadn’t. They were easy to understand. They all began the same: Wake the captain. Wake the captain if you see any vessels on the radar within a couple of miles. Wake the captain if any of the gauges change, like the engine oil pressure or the transmission oil pressure or the head pressure on the refrigeration. Wake the captain if you feel like you need to change course. Wake the captain if you can’t keep your eyes open. John wasn’t about the replay the scenario he’d heard about in the Gulf of Alaska several years earlier, where the guy coming off watch goes below, wakes another deckhand—“Hey, it’s your watch”—then crawls into bed; the other guy falls back asleep and the next thing they know, the boat is on the beach. Wake the captain if you see a light you can’t identify. Never, ever take the boat off autopilot without waking the captain, unless disaster—like collision with another boat—is imminent. The last thing John wanted was some neophyte taking the Sanak into his own hands. Wake the captain if for any reason you don’t feel comfortable.
If you change watch, always wake the captain.