An Alaskan Retirement
For a period in the 1970s I lived in a remote and roadless community of Point Baker, on the north end of Prince of Wales Island in Southeast Alaska. Without roads the 60 or so souls in the community all lived on the water and got around by skiff.
The center of the community was the main harbor with a floating Post Office on the south side and a floating combination store and bar on the north side.
The bartender was also the fish buyer in those days so it was actually possible to sell your fish for bar credit.
The harbor was right off a popular commercial fishing spot. The bar was tied to a long state float, so it was a popular spot on a Saturday night.
This wasn’t one of those places with a “Maximum capacity 24” etc. sign; you knew when it had reached maximum capacity when water started to come up through the logs under the floor. On busy nights, you’d better wear boots.
Nor was it a place for fancy drinks. Once a shiny yacht tied up and an overdressed couple made their way inside.
“What will ye have?” Queried the burly bartender, putting down a fist the size of a ham.
“Well,” said the gal, looking around uncertainty at the rough crowd sitting around, “Two Manhattans, please.”
“Look,” said the bartender in an annoyed voice, “we have whiskey and water, whiskey and Coke, and whiskey and Tang. And we save the ice to chill the fish.”
One of the colorful locals was nicknamed “Flea.” He cashed his monthly Social Security check at the floating post office, and lived in a small waterfront cabin. Seven days a week in the good weather months, he’d go out in his small wooden boat powered by a 12 hp. Briggs and Stratton engine.
To try and catch a king or a coho salmon, return in the late afternoon, sell his fish, visit a bit with the other locals at the floating bar, and pick up a six-pack for the evening and motor back home through the winding back channel to his cabin and settle in for the night
