The Haunting of Whidbey Island

photo by magical Morgan Pansing

An invitation to be whisked away to a log cabin on the shores of an unheard of island off Seattle, with a group of ladies I sort of somewhat mostly know. I’m friendly and I can’t refuse an invitation to adventure, and Elizabeth has been a lifeline since moving across the ocean to this big, new land, so of course it was a yes. I forgot I had forgotten how to be cold. “I don’t have any coats!” I complained in a frantic text exchange the day before departure. “Aren’t you English?” comes Elizabeth’s response…to which I remind her that I left England because I loathe wearing a coat. But that won’t stand in the way of a good time.

A 5am cab journey to the airport, a meeting of dames in great coats (+ me), the group immediately splitting into pre-flight boozehounds and need-a-coffee. Before lunchtime was even on the horizon Alaska Air’s ludicrously clean and comfy plane deposited us at the luxurious little fireplace-dotted wood-panelled airport of dreams at Everett Paine Field, Snohomish County, just 40 mins by land and sea from our final destination. The ferry to Whidbey Island was a location scout’s dream of smart retro formica and beige, with gorgeous views of eagles circling the blue blue waters beyond and shorelines lined with rainbow coloured cabins and pine forest.

We headed first for a feeding at the Saltwater Fish House & Oyster Bar in Langley, a delicious nosedive into what would become a weekend of excessive french fry consumption. Some slurped oysters, all cradled midday cocktails. I devoured an entire plate of neon radishes served with perfectly super-salty butter. Then we mounted our giant hire car and headed for our weekend home: The Captain Whidbey Inn.

“It was a boarding house, private residence, post office, general store and girl’s school. There were dances and orchestras and Charles Dickens dinners!” Built in 1907 from local Madrona logs, the original post and beam structure still stands intact on the shores of Penn Cove, a gorgeous russet sight rising from the firs as an early evening rain mist mingled with woodsmoke from the outdoor fire. The big red door read “Welcome” and ushered us into the lobby/living room, all cosy velvet sofas & books about the sea around a huge stone hearth (complete with a secret compartment to hide love notes). Through a small door and up the “Harry Potter” stairs to our creaky corridor of bedrooms, each warm and comfortable and cosy as a ship’s cabin. Our views were of Penn Cove, its mussel beds and colour changing waters.

Dock house and mussel rafts at the Inn, by Morgan Pansing

A potter to the lemon yellow dockhouse to watch the dusk descend pinkish over the cove, not a sound but the water gently lapping and the birds settling for the eve, and perhaps the odd joke cracked by a lady in a fabulous coat. Then inside to the glowy dining room to be treated to supper, the walls boasting romantic old images from a hundred years of parties at this magical place. Champagne boats of delicious pink wine led to a huge bowl of bourbon roasted sprouts sprinkled with salty parmesan, truly impossible to stop eating. Then an excess of perfectly skinny fries dressed in shaved truffle and garlic and their ideal bedfellow - a monstrous pot of steaming mussels fresh from Penn Cove itself. Under normal circumstances I’m not one to choose a mussel, but these were in a league of their own - unfathomably delicious, pillowy and robust. We had all eaten far too much, and possibly drunk a little much too, when our fabulous waiter Sam broke out the ghost stories.

The atmosphere on Whidbey and at the Inn was gloriously spooky - not scary, but haunted in a romantic, mystical way encouraged by the misty, smokey forest setting. Like entering another era. Creaky, low lit, fireside Captain Whidbey feels seeped in history and therefore, inevitably, spirits from the past. Sam regaled us with tales of sightings - an oft-seen girl in a white dress, a ghost with a favourite waitress…the icing on the cake was a video of a glass spontaneously flying off the bar. We left supper in turns haunted and hopeful of a sighting. Or of creating one ourselves.

photo: Morgan Pansing

Saturday morn with not a spooking all night, and a return to the dining room for eggs and bacon and many coffees. We dolled up in pretty dresses and sprawled across the gorgeous Captain’s Suite, with it’s sheepskin-strewn sofa and fairytale four poster, posing for photos and pretending to read books about ancient mariners whilst Louise recited us sea poetry. A journey to Coupeville to explore the pier in the welcome sunshine, watching seagulls dash clams on the rocks, our hair blowing furiously in the February wind and my ragged denim coat finally feeling truly inadequate. We toured sweet shops - one turned up the Springsteen so we could all sing and dance about in full embrace of our middle age. Another lunch of seashells, chips and cocktails and then off under blue skies to Ebey’s landing to move our bodies up a hill.

The beach at Ebey’s Landing stretched flat and empty, dotted with agate and driftwood, as far along the coast as is visible, with emerald hills rising up to forests, prairies and farmland beyond. It’s immediately easy to imagine first landing here by ship 150 years ago; not many places conjure history so easily. We hiked up the hill beside the beach, our views growing ever more spectacular. The reserve is named for early settler Isaac Ebey, Whidbey Island’s first permanent white resident, who was decapitated by Haida Indians on a revenge voyage for their murdered chief. So: more ghosts! Probably. As the rest of the troupe continued up a vertigo-inducing ridge I gazed out at the vastness of Puget Sound, the wind stinging my ears, dreaming of summertime whale sightings as the sun began to droop and twinkle.

Back to the Captain Whidbey, where there is never enough time to indulge in the countless expert lounging options. We cuddled into a corner booth for another snug supper, then out into the cool night to one of the Inn’s gorgeous waterfront cabins. A roaring fire to gossip at like witches, plotting a traipse out onto the Inn lawn in floaty nightdress for our staged haunting. Louise embodied the ghost, gracefully drifting barefoot through the dark grass whilst the rest of us giggled behind, cameras aloft. A few gasps and cheers from upstairs windows, some spooky footage slightly spoiled by our sniggering soundtrack…a rare recapture of innocence and silliness and mystery for a little moment out of time.

Next morning, another vast brekkie at the Inn & we gathered in the sitting room to draw pictures of one another and write love notes. Then a final farewell to the green paned windows, squashy cloud beds and spellbinding cove as we wound off across Whidbey Island in search of Deception Pass. Weaving through fields and cute coloured houses and over a giant bridge we were greeted at a soft, silent beach by a huge cedar mermaid, the suitably eerie Maiden of Deception pass. Through the trees and up the hill to Rosario Head, imagining orcas among views of straits stretching into the blue distance, whirlpooly seas below swirling with the maiden’s kelpy hair. Then on across silent, shell-strewn Bowman Bay, up through Madrona woodland to lounge on lime green moss and lichen overlooking a turquoise lagoon. The nature here is overwhelmingly dense and fulfilling, the air tastes green and bright.

And then sadly back to the airport, as the first famous Pacific North West drizzle began to fall, a short drive broken up by chicken soup and stop at the smokey casino to play slot machines with Elizabeth’s grandma. Arriving at dusk, full of fried potatoes, fresh air and soul-nourishing chat, a quick Facetime check-in with the families we would soon be reunited with. Then flying away from this dreamscape land of phantoms and mermaids, log cabins and fireside nourishment.

☽

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

- Sea Fever BY JOHN MASEFIELD