TOWN OF FRIDAY HARBOR FIRE
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TOWN OF FRIDAY HARBOR FIRE |
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Related pagesList of stories about May 9 Friday Harbor fire |
Viewing the fire and the futureBy Alia Knight
I was randomly nibbling potato chips when I stared up to see chilling billows of smoke rising over the horizon. My father sensed the same things I did. "Look," I said softly, "that can't be right." At first we only watched the smoke. "Let's go check it out," I kept insisting. My dad seemed to agree, even though the smoke seemed to fade for a hovering moment. Then another huge puff of black smoke made my mind up. I flung my backpack over my shoulders, "Let's go!"
After what seems a long time later, I stand here, my face red hot from almost two hours of dashing and running from one view point to another with a heavy backpack like a reporter desperately trying to find the best place to take pictures. I am gazing at the flaming remains of the deli. How sad to be able to look inside and see burning shelves inside the falling store where so many have come and shopped. I hear shouts around me as the windows are shattered one by one, as if someone has broken one with a hammer and is moving straight to the next one. The firemen cringe at the glass as it breaks. Later, there are cries and I lift my head to see the roof of the Friday Harbor Grocery collapse. The one brick wall is the only thing preventing it from collapsing completely, like a single tree being the only thing to keep those around it from falling. The entire array that the fire claimed as its victim and then cut down now lies coated in an unfamiliar white substance.
I know the Mystic Mermaid was lost and I am full of anxiety, because the chance that the China Pearl was saved is slim. The sky fills with smoke. It blots out all views beyond its origin. A cold wind curls its arms around me and I don't know how to react. My sides ache, for as I said, I've been running back and forth from view to view. Every now and then I feel compelled to find someone I know, as a bird searches for its flock during danger. But I now feel doubtful, for no matter how much white smoke there is, symbolizing the fire's defeat, there is always a little bit of black smoke, which means the fire is relishing its new fuel, like a tiny sin haunting a cathedral of hope. But there is hope, for the smoke begins to clear and amidst the extensive amounts of spray made by the fireman's hoses a rainbow forms. A rainbow, God's promise to man and a good omen for me. My eyes turn skyward and through the thick smoke I can make out three helicopters, one green and black, the other red, white, and another dark color, and the third is beyond my sight.
The great destroyer, Fire, seems determined to burn until it has reduced its victims to ashes. One can't help but be pessimistic in such a situation. Follow the black smoke, I tell myself, just follow the black smoke. I race here to the hill where I can see where the risk is. The Mystic Mermaid is sunk, (no pun intended), and my ears are serenaded by the sound of powerful jets of water beating against the wooden walls of the doomed shops. But is the China Pearl, my favorite childhood restaurant, still safe? I must find out. I descend down the grumpy slopes to the lower street, where not only is there a yellow ribbon blocking my way, but the smoke scratches my throat and forbids all sight. I will not stay. I scramble back up the hill, and as I look over my shoulder, I see that the China Pearl is within an arm's length of danger. But I believe we are safe.
I rush to the Hungry Clam view point. On my way I meet a man who asks me, "Aren't you supposed to be on the ferry?" I tell him I have personally skipped that plan off of my schedule. We talk for a while. "What could be worse than to lose your job to the element of destruction?" I ask. His response is thought provoking. "I think everyone is going to come together and build that place back up real fast."
I stand there, yellow ribbon flapping, smoke billowing, watching the life giving water being sent to extinguish what few tongues of fire remain to mock their relentless attackers. I will go to the final view point to see the fire for the last time tonight. Now I sit here near a friend. The E.M.S backs up. The yellow ribbon is lowered so a camera man can get a close up shot. I hug one friend and greet another. The smoke grows so white it could be clouds to a distant onlooker, the tension eases, the storm clears, and the firemen talk amongst themselves. I can breathe freely now. We are safe. I now must close my notebook, put down my pencil, and look up to question the future, but I will never, ever, demand anything from the future. I look down to see the firemen still at work, the jets of water still spraying, crowds still standing behind the flapping yellow ribbons, flames still curling around and evading the water, deputies keeping the people back, and hear the endless humming of the fire engines filling the air. Amidst all that chaos, I notice a yellow dog slip under the yellow ribbon, trot past the fireman and over the fire hose, keeping to the side walk, apparently understanding the danger. Amidst all the flurry of activity, my eyes follow the dog still walking along the streets and past the flames, just a dusty, yellow, dog, oblivious to the fears of his human counterparts. What a symbol. Alia Knight is a seventh-grade student in Matt Pranger photos |
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