Written by Stacey Otte
When I tell people I lived on Santa Catalina Island for 18 years, I’m almost always met with a look of disbelief. I’m not sure why so many are surprised or even shocked by that. But now that it’s been quite a while since I left, I can say that I’m incredibly grateful to have lived there so long.
I grew up in the Midwest, finished graduate school on the east coast and was looking for my first full-time job with my newly earned masters degree in Museum Studies when I saw the job listing for the Catalina Island Museum. My heart leapt, and I immediately wrote an earnest letter and hoped for the best.
A month later, I was sitting on the Catalina Express in the late afternoon, sailing to the island for an interview, breathing in brisk ocean air. After disembarking at the boat terminal, I walked a few minutes to my hotel in the dark with only a vague impression of Avalon.
I woke up early the next morning and began my walk to find breakfast and was met with the unreal vision of rows of beach cottages surrounded by steep hills dotted with homes that looked like they belonged somewhere in the Mediterranean. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It just didn’t seem real.
After breakfast, I walked out to the grand Casino Building at the far end of Avalon Bay where the museum was housed. The sounds and smells and rhythms of the ocean, gently gliding over the rocks as I walked to my job interview, have never left me.
Photo by Stacey Otte
I moved there to start my job two months later. Very quickly, I learned that the ocean directly or indirectly impacted so many parts of our lives. Big ocean storms would prevent boats from coming over which meant fewer tourists for the shops and the museum but might also mean the barges didn’t come over to disgorge their cargo and fill up our grocery stores. Milk and eggs were often the first thing to disappear from the shelves.
But I never minded that temporary inconvenience. I adored the storms that rolled into the normally calm harbor. The harbor would be transformed, waves pounding the shore and bouncing off the sea walls. Who needed a carton of milk when you could throw your jacket on and get blown to bits while being amazed by the raging water, knowing it would never last for long and soon the tranquil harbor would return.
The water also provided one of the most sublime sights in the world—a full moon rising over the ocean, casting its silvery reflection as a path straight into Avalon. An absolutely heavenly vision that I’m never tired of and I still miss seeing.
The ocean also delighted us with its residents. The garibaldis (California’s state fish) flashed their bright orange colors in the shallow waters of the harbor. Heavy, awkward looking pelicans would spontaneously tuck in their wings and dive straight down into the ocean to grab a meal. Occasionally, sea lions would swim in between boats and bark for attention.
I was blessed to live near the water, and I loved waking up to the sound of the pinging of the lines on the boats’ masts. The loud roaring of cigarette boats revving their engines in the early morning, not so much.
Photo by Stacey Otte
The ocean provided us with food, and, for many, the entertainment and challenge of fishing. Fishing charters were practically a daily occurrence. Every now and then they would fire off the cannon from the Green Pier when someone had brought in a swordfish or marlin for weighing. To see this magnificent fish hanging upside down while the triumphant anglers posed next to it was a moment of mourning for me, not celebration, so I quickly learned to avoid the pier if I heard the distinct sound of the cannon’s boom.
Beginning divers often got their first lessons at the Dive Park just past the Casino. I would see them glowing with excitement, pulling off their fins and unzipping their dripping wetsuits, exclaiming over this or that creature they had seen. The clean, clear waters and thick kelp forests where sheepshead, garibaldi and rare giant sea bass swam were a diver’s paradise.
Before long, I tried kayaking with new friends and discovered the wonder of paddling. Pulling into a small cove as the waters got shallower, I would see the shadowy shapes of fish and even small leopard sharks or rays gliding beneath me. I would rest my paddle on top of the kayak and just sit, gently bobbing in the waters, dangling my hands into the cool ocean, basking in the sun, with not a care in the world.
Photo by Stacey Otte
I have visited the island several times since I moved back to the mainland (or “Overtown” as islanders say) and the last time was a few years ago for a bittersweet occasion—the scattering of my dad’s ashes. A friend took my husband and I out on his boat up the coast, away from Avalon until we found what seemed like a perfect spot. It was a calm day, and we gently rocked on the water, a beautiful stillness surrounding us. I said a few words and released his ashes. We sat quietly when a slick round head of a sea lion popped up, just a few yards from the boat, large brown eyes studying us. He swam a little closer and then dove down. We didn’t see him again. Somehow it felt like dad reassuring me that all was well.
My island time connected me to nature like nothing in my previous life. And that appreciation and knowledge that we are intertwined with all of nature will be with me until my days end. I just hope that I can help pass on that love and respect to others, even if my island days are over. Because even a continent is really just a giant island, still surrounded by water, still vulnerable to nature’s whims–and still deserving of our respect and nurturing.