Inside The Rainbow

By Sandy Sinclair

INSIDE THE RAINBOW by Sandy Sinclair, Alaskan bush teacher

Not just memoirs of an ol' teacher but the author deals with how the events of the past may be connected to our current life.

Beside the Alaska adventures there are some significant points made throughout the book:

â ¢There is a word for word interview with OSAMA bin LADEN as repeated from this author's contact with Peter Bergen of CNN, the only western journalist ever to personally talk with the jihadist in his cave back in 1997. This clearly explains the nature of our current conflict.

â ¢Rosa Parks not going to the back of the bus affected America.

â ¢Passengers of flight 93 had the foresight to sacrifice themselves for preservation of their fellow Americans in Washington DC, targeted by the hijackers of that flight.

â ¢The Sec. of State stood against a belligerent congress in1867 to purchase Alaska from Russia proving the "collective wisdom" of our congress is often totally wrong.

â ¢JFK challenged us to do the impossible (go to the moon). This success gave us confidence to attempt other "impossibles".

â ¢Our total dependence on modern technical devises may be a big gain . But let us evaluate what we have lost in doing so.

â ¢There are productive ways for us all to deal with the national tragedy of Sept 11th 2001.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456602154

Book preview

SS

CHAPTER 1: SAILING TO THE WILD WEST

Sanak Island on a rare calm day

We're not going to Alaska in that little thing, screamed Marie, when first she saw the Motor Vessel GARLAND. It did look rather small alongside the Victory ship moored nearby on the waterfront. She never surmised that, for the next year, that little thing would be the biggest thing we'd long to see and whenever we did see the little thing that event would become the biggest celebration for everyone.

That little thing was the hundred twenty foot tramp steamer that moored in Seattle for ten days, before making the stormy twenty day freight run to the Aleutian Islands, the most westward part of North America. Our destination was one of those islands. That remote island was totally isolated, not only from the lower forty-eight but from all Alaska as well. It had neither an established radio contact nor any telephone communication. That GARLAND would be our only contact with the outside world. She’d bring us our mail and the supplies that we’d ordered months before through the faithful ol' Sears and Roebuck catalogue.

We’d been married but two months before and the ink was barely dry on our college diplomas when we faced the monumental task of ordering all the supplies needed for living a full year in the wilderness.

Marie and I met while attending Eastern Washington College of Education and after a whirlwind romance, I convinced my new bride to embark on a life of adventure and travel, as I envisioned we would teach our way around the world. Our friends were starting their careers in nice comfortable local schools, so it took much negotiation for her to agree to make our first stop the wilds of Alaska.

After making letters of inquiry, we received two job offers from Alaska. One was to teach in the Bureau of Indian Affairs Eskimo village of Ukivok on King Island. This community was perched upon pilings driven into a sheer rock face out on a speck of land between Siberia and Alaska. The villagers and teachers were delivered to King Island by the BIA supply ship North Star or even by a Coast Guard Ice Breaker if it was on duty in the locale. Everyone stayed there all winter without avenue of escape until spring, as they were ringed in by frozen sea ice.

The other offer was from the Territory of Alaska to teach on an equally isolated Aleutian Island. It was a big decision but after much consideration we both put our signatures on the dual acceptance letter we dropped into the mailbox. Our fate was sealed, we chose Sanak.

When we received our teaching contracts in the mail from the Territory of Alaska, we immediately started buying the things presumed needed, using borrowed money. That soon created a big mountain within our Seattle apartment. An even bigger problem was to get it all shipped north to our school location without any slip-ups. The situation was so insecure as there was no agent on which to give our list with the responsibility to have it arrive safely at the destination. No one sold shipping insurance for a secured delivery to such a remote location.

We had no clue about what food to order for a year nor did we know what clothing we might need. We weren’t sure if the Aleutian weather was sub-zero or mostly rain. We didn’t even know what was needed for our living quarters. All the written material about our assignment was stated in general terms. We wrote asking why the information was so tentative. Their answer was that the island was so remote that no one from their department had ever been there. Our pre-job indoctrination was merely second hand information. We took the job. They said Good Luck!

We got medical advice about pioneer living from our old family doctor who gave us big green pills from his own supply. My NRA rifle instructor rebuilt an old 30:06 especially for me. We got wilderness advice from my ninety year old uncle who had run pack horses up Chilkoot Pass during the Klondike Gold Rush but most decisions came from my naïve, know-it-all macho, judgment tempered somewhat with the common sense of Marie’s country girl upbringing. I was prepared to add my old bellows camera, some sheet film, photo chemicals and photo paper as I had been well trained in old style black and white studio photography.

The complete ingredient for every meal became a big deal, as we wouldn't be going down to the deli for any last minute items before dinner. Every need had to be anticipated accurately, acquired quickly, packed securely and delivered to the dock ahead of our scheduled departure.

Marie and I hurriedly sent our mountain of stuff, delivered by a commercial trucker, to the docking address of the GARLAND, hoping the trucker knew where he was going as that shipment of supplies was our sole lifeline. We were still busy with last minute details and receiving good luck messages from family when we got a frantic phone call from the Garland’s chief mate saying there had been a mix-up in the previously announced schedule given to us and we would be leaving within the hour. I called a taxi and we rushed to the harbor. We had no idea if everything was aboard or if we'd bought wisely, as we neared the gangplank that evening. Oh Well, I said trying to reassure Marie, We can always request anything we forgot sent up on the next month’s trip. Little did we know that we'd not see the GARLAND but a few times that next year.

My bride saw the little tramp steamer for the first time that evening on the Seattle waterfront when we boarded, provoking her negative outcry. I was absolutely sure that this was the right thing for us to do, as I boldly stomped up the gangplank. Marie just stepped aboard.

So at dusk on August 29, 1951, a harvest moon lighted the deserted docks as the GARLAND'S skipper gave the sleepy Seattle waterfront the traditional long melodious steam-whistle. That was the total celebration. No one came to see us off. No confetti streamers. No cheers of Bon Voyage. A crewman just slipped off her mooring lines and away we chugged. We were off to Alaska and teach in what would be the last of the little red schoolhouse era.

When the crew learned where we were going, they swarmed us with horror stories:

Why, didn’t you know that Sanak is the worst freight landing on the whole Aleutian run?

Just last year the teacher candidate got as far as Seward and turned back after learning what life on that island was going to be like.

One year the teacher was killed when a fishing boat blew up right in Sanak Harbor.

Another year a man and wife went out there as teachers. The wife went hunting for wild flowers along the cliffs and was never found again, not even a trace.

Another went crazy and burned all the school books.

Still another had to deliver his wife’s baby because there was no way to get medical aid when her time came.

It has a reputation as the hard luck school.

We figured this was just the normal initiation given all Cheechako schoolteachers, but later found every one of those Sanak legends to be completely accurate. One grizzly old sailor confided that we'd each earn the title of Sourdough after a year, but until then Marie and I would carry that lowly label of Cheechako.

The GARLAND slowly moved past an anchored Liberty ship in Elliott Bay, and headed North. Our fully loaded craft had canvas covered cargo strapped down about her foredeck, and stacks of lumber on her fantail. She soon slowed down and nuzzled up at the Richmond Point dock to take on fuel. For an hour, the strong smell of diesel came into our cabin, so we went out about the deck and watched the harbor lights ashore. We were excited to be finally on our way as it had been a stressful week with all the preparation of ordering, packing and shipping all our truck for a year's living. That had been overwhelming for a couple of newlyweds. We only hoped that everything got aboard, as we never were able to double-check our manifest with whoever was supposed to be in charge of cargo.

As the only passengers, Marie and I had the stateroom. It was a tiny closet-sized cabin with two boxy seaman bunks, no sink nor toilet. There was no place to put our two sea bags full of personal gear, so they shared the bottom of each bunk along with our feet. I took out my little ukulele and started playing the only three songs that I could strum. Though tolerant of my low-level musical skill, Marie was sick and tired of those three tunes before the trip was over.

On the night traverse of the Inside Passage, between Vancouver Island and the west coast of Canada, we saw running lights of freighters, commercial fishing boats and recreation boaters heading south to the warm comforts of industrialized civilization. We were heading north to the cold wild west.

I brought aboard a copy of the latest newspaper from our hometown: THE DAILY OLYMPIAN, August 29 1951. Little did we know that would be the last world news we'd see in print for a year. I read to Marie some of the sub headings:

KOREAN CASUALTY COUNT: 81,422 The Defense Department today reported a new total of American battle casualties in the Korean War, an increase of 415 since last week.

(Marie remembered some of our classmates who were drafted in the fall, trained, served in the war, wounded and back on campus with crutches before the year was over.)

COULD AN A-BOMB STOP HURRICANES? New Orleans-Mr. Ellos, a New Orleans insurance man pointed out that the cost of an A-bomb is less than the toll of the recent hurricane Charlie that killed 210 people in a week-long rampage. That A-bomb idea was discussed, said Stevens, the weather bureau's chief forecaster, but not seriously.

LESSONS FOR IRAN Britain and Iran were bitterly sparring over an oil dispute, yet a new pact was reached in an atmosphere of great tension. It was feared that Iraq might balk for a time but that agreement lowered the prospect of trouble developing in the Middle East.

KENNEDY ASKS FOR INVESTIGATION OF THE ARMY! Kennedy, (D) Massachusetts, asked congress to examine methods used to admit men to West Point after 90 cadets were expelled for cheating on tests. These cadets made up much of their champion football team.

THE BLOODIEST HOLY WAR IN HISTORY IS COMING! Moslem's of Pakistan are threatening a jihad holy war against the Hindus of India. 10,000s had just been killed there.

400 SLATED TO DIE ON HIGHWAYS THIS LABOR DAY WEEK END! That was a predicted number to die in automobiles this week in the USA. This would bring the total, during the last 50 years, to over one million. That is more US deaths than in all our wars we've fought.

MOVIES AT THE AVALON THEATER Bing Crosby and Jane Wyman in Here comes the Groom along with a second feature, Father's Little Dividend with Spencer Tracy and Joan Bennett, plus a news reel and a cartoon. Marie found comics were actually funny as I read them.

In every minute of our existence on this planet, good things are happening as well as an equal amount of terrible things. Reporters, playwrights, song writers, artists, and photo journalists ply their trade using a selection from those thousands of choices that happen every day. So I asked Marie which stories should we acknowledge from all those? She chose the sports page and the funnies.

The next morning, we met most of the eight-man crew and were even welcomed by the skipper. He allowed us to visit the wheel-house, except during docking. The salty old black cook was our favorite, as he always had some funny comment to add to any conversation. We took some pictures around the boat that expressed our feelings, of enthusiasm (mine) and of docile acceptance (hers). One of Marie on top of the deck cargo looking wistfully back towards home.

Item from Marie's diary: Aug 30th The cook asked us where we were headed and when we told him Sanak,, he just rolled his eyes and left, not saying a word. All the people who tell us stories about Sanak have never been there. I am anxious to find out about the place for myself.

At each port of call, we picked up more passengers. A nurse named Mary Light boarded at Ketchikan and Father Popoff came on at Juneau. During those years of mistrust about the Communist, I figured he was a Russian spy masquerading under religious cover.

From our newspaper, I read that North Korean and UN forces were starting peace talks at a place near the 38th Parallel, yet at the same time our troops were being killed by Communist artillery fire on nearby Fool's Hill. I suspected, Father Popoff had to be part of a similar Russian Communist deception here in our part of the world. But in truth, I found that the Korean War was the furthermost thing from his mind. He was the much beloved Russian Orthodox priest respected by all in the westward islands.

We were ready to cast off at Seward, when two taxis sped down the dock, screeched to a stop by the GARLAND and unloaded four sets of teachers. They were heading out to their respective Alaska Native Service teaching stations along the westward chain. It was no wonder that the crew labeled the September run of the GARLAND The Schoolmarm Special.

Passengers were soon sleeping all over; in the mess hall, on the tables, on the seats, in the passageways, and even one guy in the cargo hold. I was asked to give up my space so the nurse could share the stateroom with Marie. However, everyone made light of the inconvenience. We all became one big, low budget cruise boat.

This old sea dog got seasick going across the Gulf of Alaska, while my farm-bred wife who had never been to sea, was bright eyed and cheery. Marie was the only passenger who never missed a meal. So much for any macho bragging rites in our marriage!

All the ANS teachers were federal employees from the US Bureau of Indian Affairs. They were an independent rugged lot, who over the years had developed a close-knit camaraderie. Each couple lived a very lonely professional life in their isolated native villages, yet when meeting every two or three years aboard ship or at conferences, they'd grab each other by the shoulders, call out their nick-names, and swap Alaskan stories. It was like old home week for them on the Schoolmarm Special.

The one connecting link they had, that we Territorial teachers did not have, was their weekly radio schedule. Being a US Government institution they had a special radio frequency set aside daily for official school business, but always some personal messages managed to slip in.

One giant ANS teacher from Nikolski and her Casper-milk-toast husband, had just returned from gambling in Reno and were still at it aboard the GARLAND. A lone thirteen-year-old native boy wanted to join in their game. They let him play and soon had him in a sink or swim decision. He moaned that what he put in the pot was all he had. We watched, as the hard-nosed teacher said, Put up or shut up! The next hand, she parted him from all his gambling money, and added, Your school play-days are over, kid. This is the real school of hard knocks!

Sept 6th Left Kodiak at 10:30 They still couldn’t get our radar fixed. We are plugging thru the fog without it. We now have 24 passengers, 10 teachers, 1 missionary, 1 nurse, 1 Russian Orthodox Priest (he looks just like Joseph Stalin), 2 Aleut natives, 2 young boys, a Cannery Supt, his wife and 5 kids. Now all the crew know us but don't call us by name, we are just called The Sanak Kids.

As we headed west from Kodiak, we started letting people off at each Aleut village. Mary Light, the missionary nurse, was dropped off at Afognak. The Russian Priest was headed for Karluck via Squaw Harbor. The Barnett's were dropped at Belkofski. None of the native villages had docks, so small fishing dories would come out to the anchored GARLAND. A native fisherman would stay in his dory, maneuvering it along-side the bouncing ship in the big swells, trying to get close enough for the crew to safely drop supplies, mail and people into the small space between the dories pointed bow and their pointed stern. When one would get its load, the next one would maneuver into position. It was a perilous situation and had to be done with tremendous skill and a little bit of luck.

Sept 7th Sandy talked with the Russian Priest. After much communication, he understood him to say, that in the outlying villages the teacher is always No. 1 and the Priest is No. 2. The missionary thinks the Priest is going out to start trouble in the villages by collecting money. The friends of the Priest on board tell us they think the missionary nurse is going out to start some trouble between Orthodox believers and the fundamentalists. In the newspaper, I just read in the religious section that an Arab boy had just found some old scrolls in a cave near the Dead Sea, but experts say they don't think they are authentic relics. Wouldn't it be great if they could shed some light on what really happened back in those days?

The Aleutian schools from Kodiak westward in geographical order were: Afognak-ANS, Ouzinkie-ANS, Old Harbor-ANS, Alitak-ANS, Chignik-ANS, Perryville-ANS, Sandpoint-Territorial, Unga-Territorial, Belkofski-ANS, King Cove-ANS, and Sanak-Territorial. Further west from us came Ikatan-Territorial-(It only had 5 students and the teacher quit so that school dissolved), Nikolski-ANS, Unalaska at Dutch Harbor (an incorporated town with a regular school district, served regularly by the Reeves Airline) and finally Adak, way out on end of the chain, a modern well equipped U.S. Air Force On-base School.

The unloading at Perryville was especially memorable. Marie and I had been having long conversations with the Ragans, learning about their teaching life in various isolated villages. Marie really liked Mrs. Ragan who had brilliant red hair. She was caring for her two-year-old child and had recently given birth to an infant. It was especially rough water that day as we dropped anchor. We could barely see the ANS schoolhouse, near the shoreline through the wind-blown spray. Safety and security were within sight on that shore, but would they be able to reach it? Mr. Ragan slipped from his perch as he jumped off the GARLAND into a waiting skiff. But after recovering, the two-year-old was handed down to him. We held our breath as Mrs. Ragan with baby in her arms stepped out into mid air like Mary Poppins, just as the dory came up to her outstretched foot on the next wave. She bravely let go of the GARLAND's lifeline and crumpled into the arms of the rough looking bearded Aleut, in the bow of that bouncing dory. At that split-second another Aleut in the stern gave the 9 horsepower Johnson outboard full throttle and they sped away out of sight into the fog toward what we assumed would be a very wet surf landing along the shoreline just in front of the Perryville school. We never saw them again.

The many days of stormy seas, the inconvenience of eating and sleeping amid cargo, plus the never ending stories of teaching in the North molded special memories of The Schoolmarm Special forever in our minds. We all seemed to have so much enthusiasm for life and our career in those days, like highly trained recruits before their first battle. It was with real emotion that we said goodbye to each as they stepped over the side into a waiting dory which took them ashore to their positions in a native village.

Nothing can match this treasure of common trials endured together and thus the wilderness teaching fraternity was created. Fraternity through northern hardship may also be depicted by this example, the recent Diamond Jubilee of the Klondike Gold Pioneers, celebrated in Seattle. There were people who made millions, along-side former dance hall girls, mule train packers as well as the unsuccessful prospectors who had to borrow money to get home. From far and wide came the good guys and the bad guys, the lucky ones and the unlucky ones, but at that jubilee, social status was forgotten. They became brothers and sisters of the same fraternity. All had suffered through the same experience. It's true, each did it in his or her own fashion, but at this celebration, sharing the North had molded them equal. They’d all had endured!

We stopped at Unga and Sandpoint, our closest Territorial school neighbors, but we didn't meet the teachers. They had previously arrived on the August boat and were busy in their schools. At Sandpoint there was a cannery, so we tied up to a nice secure dock and were met by the self-appointed official boat-greeter of the village. This native matriarch had been looking forward all summer to meeting the new teachers of Sanak, the place she called Her Peoples. This special lady was Katie Morris. She had lived on Sanak during her formative years and was related to many of the residents. In her broken English, Katie told us many names of students we would soon be teaching and gave us friendly advice aimed at doing a good job for Her Peoples. She had little gifts to give to selected Sanak schoolgirls as well as a special package of smoked salmon for us. Katie was so happy to see that we were young and spirited rather than hardened veterans of the bush schools. By the time we got to Sandpoint, all the Aleutian schoolmarms had been delivered, except four: the Dieringers for Nikolski, the Barnettes for Belkovski, the Dodds for King Cove, plus Marie and I, who had been the only Territorial teachers aboard.

This was the first time anyone had made a special fuss over us, as we were clearly the poor cousins among all the Alaska Native Service teachers. Later, we learned why. All their schools had generators for lights, appliances, up-to-date two-way radio equipment, health services from the ship M V ALASKA HEALTH, well equipped classrooms, running water, showers and toilets. They had routine visits from the Russian Priest for Religious services, regular supply visits by the BIA support ship NORTH STAR, an elected village chief for law and order plus the fraternity of other ANS teachers for professional support. None of these luxuries were we to inherit. They knew that. We didn't.

Katie Morris, in her own way, made us the honored celebrities that day. She insisted that we write her about the current situation and offered us any assistance that was in her power to make things better for Her Peoples.

There’s your island, said the second mate, two days later, as we wallowed in the heavy swells of the North Pacific. We both were up on the bridge straining our eyes through the fog, to catch a glimpse of our new home. At last we sighted a dim silhouette outcropping of rock in the distance, but then our Captain came on the bridge and said, Looks like it’s too rough to unload at Sanak. We’ll head for False Pass and try it again tomorrow.

It had been twelve days of anticipation for us and now just as we were almost there, we had to turn away. That was disheartening, almost as disheartening as my dinner the night before.

They served great meals aboard this little ship. It was porterhouse steak that night.

I had eaten all around the main, big, medium-rare mouthwatering last bite. That was all I had left on my plate. I was saving it, because I knew it would be my last steak in a long, long time. I was talking with one of the crew and looking at him across the table when the steward came, thinking I was finished, took my plate away. When I looked back it was too late. My last juicy bite was gone. I have never forgiven him to this day. They still owe me that one big bite of steak!

False Pass is a quaint fishing cannery village at a spot where the waters of the Pacific Ocean meet the waters of the Bering Sea. The pass is too small for large ships to get through, thus the name.

On the dock, we were fortunate in meeting Emil Gunderson who was just leaving for his home on Sanak in his fishing boat after his summer salmon season. We skipped dinner, quickly grabbed our personal gear, and jumped aboard his boat to head for Sanak that night. We only hoped our supplies would follow the next day. The trip over in a following sea was quite rough and tossed the THRASHER around like a cork. I was over my seasickness by then and volunteered to take a turn at the wheel. Emil said Steer Sow by Sow-East, and walked out of the wheelhouse. He didn’t even check to see if I knew how to hold a course, let alone steer in these difficult following seas. In the Navy I was the special duty helmsman on a destroyer, but Emil didn’t know that. I thought it to be fairly unique that a greenhorn schoolteacher would know the skills of the sea, but these people seemed to take it for granted. I was soon to find out, they took many other things for granted also about their teachers.

Four hours of bucking into a head wind in the pitch black night brought us to Sanak. Emil took the helm from me and squeezed the THRASHER in between two rock mounds resembling the Pillars of Hercules. There we entered the shallow boat anchorage of Pauloff Harbor containing a little dock, with connecting walkway to shore.

As soon as the THRASHER docked, the skipper's wife, Marina, came aboard and took charge of our welcome, telling us about the island, its people and about the children we would teach. She and Marie immediately started a friendship that would last through the years. Marina seemed to be the matriarch of the island and we felt she was measuring us up to see if we'd meet her expectations. We talked for an extended period of time as she offered us a handful of sailor's hard tack called pilot bread, that we dipped into real gourmet butter from a can. It was our first introduction to that combination which has become a mainstay in our cupboard ever since.

We must have passed her inspection as we were soon invited to go ashore to meet our destiny. Chris Gunderson, the school agent, then led us to our new home. As we walked along the wooden walkway in the dark, we heard giggles and saw the heads of children peeking out at us from behind corners of various buildings. Each student was making his or her first impression of us that night. Luckily, in the dark, they couldn't detect how anxious we were. It had been a long day and we hadn't had a meal since early morning.

The first building we saw at the end of the walkway was a Quonset hut. That was the school. The front section, fifteen by twenty-five feet, was one classroom used by both of us. It contained thirty desks with fold-down seats jammed close to each other. At the end were two teacher’s desks. The back fifteen feet was to be our living quarters, with an oil cook stove, table, four chairs, a folding couch that doubled as a bed, cardboard closet for our clothes and a five gallon gas can cut in half for our sink. For light we had two Coleman lanterns, which I couldn’t seem to get lighted without help from a fifth grade boy who happened in just at that moment. On the wall was a scrub board for wash day and two ancient flat irons were on the stove for ironing. Marie was well acquainted with flat irons from the farm and vowed right then she wouldn’t be doing any ironing up here. There was no sink drain so all our water had to be carried both in and out. A 5-gallon can was under the sink to be dumped outside when full. This space was our home as well as our work place for the year. It was definitely a pioneer setting.

Despite it all, we heaved a great sigh of relief. There was good news and bad news. We were finally home! Yet a great concern plagued us. Would our supplies get there and did everything get shipped as planned? Chris had made a nice warm fire for us and since it was past midnight, we just crashed onto the folding couch out of exhaustion.

The next morning, we awoke late to a big commotion outside the school. While we had overslept, the GARLAND had arrived and all the village mail and supplies had already come ashore onto the Sanak dock. Our packing boxes were at that moment being hauled up the walkway and stacked into the school storehouse across from our Quonset Hut. It was done bucket brigade style by everyone in the village. Young boys of school age were there helping, so we passed the word that we'd start school with a half day of classes the next morning. We worked steadily until noon when we broke open a box of crackers and soup for our first meal since the day before. We were starved! It was 11:00 PM before we got everything stored away and accounted for. Hurray! Everything was there, so school would open on schedule in the morn.

Our first day of school was set to begin starting at 8 AM the next morning, yet we were dog tired from all the continued stress of preparation, travel and getting settled in. For the first time we surveyed the pile of books we'd be using the next day and finally found the teacher's manuals. They were on the bottom shelf so we sat down there on the floor and started reading. Marie's books were the outdated Dick and Jane series, the very ones she had used as a first grader herself seventeen years before. After a couple of hours we dropped the manuals only partly finished and made up the folding couch into a bed.

Marie couldn't sleep. Long after midnight she woke me and said, I'm not sure I know how to teach. What do I do? All the stuff we learned in Miss Graybill's Teaching Procedures class was just theory. This is for real, now. We are on center stage up there all alone! No problem, honey. I said, Just follow the teachers manual, and I went back to sleep.

The next day my brave little wife responded to what she saw was needed in the life of her students and taught from her heart. She rose up to the challenge and did wonderful as the teacher starting that day through all her twenty seven years as a professional educator.

Sanak Island is twelve miles long and three miles wide but doesn’t have a tree on it. There is no vegetation over six inches high, only tundra and grass. Being from the Pacific Northwest we really missed evergreen trees. One sight, however, did relieve the monotony of that bleak landscape, the thirteen hundred foot mountain. It stood up, as if forming a backdrop to the village like in one of those old black and white staged photographs.

Sept 12th Held school in the morning.(half day) Kids were very quiet, Sandy has 10 kids in grades 5 6 & 8. I have 11 in grades 1 2 3 & 4.

Nellie Anderson came in while drunk and wanted to enroll in grade 7 ( She is 19 and married) Sandy said she could but she had to be sober. Nellie assumed we as teachers must know everything, and expected us to teach her mid-wife skills, she totally forgot about it the next day.

Sept 13 First full day of school. It went slow for both of us so Sandy went behind the blackboard and set the school clock 15 minutes ahead just so we could let the kids out a bit early and spend the extra time getting our own life in order.

All eight grades inside our Little Red Schoolhouse

That label of the hard luck school reputation started happening to us the first week we arrived. We had school but two days when Gurman Halverson and his Aleut wife were found in a bloody mess, each shot dead with a 12-gauge slug. The wife's body showed signs of a struggle. A shotgun lay close to Gurman on the floor. Their three kids came home from school and found the door locked so they stayed with friends that night. The next day after school, the door was still locked so they asked the neighbors for help. That was how the village learned of the tragedy.

The U.S. Commissioner, our nearest law was the wife of a tavern owner 160 miles away on Unga Island. Her qualification for the position was that she had finished one year of college, an art major. She was notified by Emil relaying a message via the THRASHER's small VHF radio, connecting to another skipper aboard his fishing boat, who when he came ashore to the tavern, carried the message by word of mouth to the Commissioner.

In the meantime, Marie and I found out, to our surprise, that it was usually the school teacher who was expected to take charge of a situation like that. When the Commissioner did arrive, a few days later, she didn’t even view the evidence, saying she didn’t have the stomach for it. The entire crew from Unga had been getting fortified for the ordeal with homemade hooch so their stomachs as well as their minds were clearly not in any condition for the viewing.

The murder scene, the school used as a morgue and the funeral director

The Commissioner turned my school into a court and held a six-man inquest, which consisted of six people telling their views of what they thought had happened. I was appointed to make out the death certificates and she left. After hearing what the six villagers said, I wrote on the official document that it looked like the man had shot his wife, then himself. But with no investigation and no evidence presented, no one will ever know what really happened in the mystery cabin on that fateful night. The cabin lay empty and unvisited all the rest of the year.

The school store-room was used as a morgue, where two coffins were made ready. I wondered who was to conduct the funeral service.

One of the first friends we made on the island was old Chris Halverson. He was a classic Nordic fisherman type who had traveled the sea lanes as an ocean nomad, until he settled with an Aleut wife on this, his hideaway of Sanak. Gurman was his only son and when he came to me, in tears, to ask if I would perform the funeral, he said, It was hard to lose my wife eight years ago, but to have a son die before you do, is more than I can bear.

I felt tremendous compassion for my newly found friend and accepted the responsibility, without really knowing how I'd handle the situation. I was far from the dignified pious type, but by conducting the funeral, I became more than just the teacher and eventually earned a place in the spiritual scene of these Aleut fisher-folk. My formal education hadn't prepared me for anything like this. However by stepping up to the role that was thrust upon me, I began to temper that happy-go-lucky Tom Sawyer demeanor that had up to that time been my trademark.

On the day of the funeral I walked to the cemetery behind the coffins with Marie’s Bible in my hand as I’d seen in John Wayne movies. I wore my only white shirt and a tie. The rest of the villagers followed behind me. When we got to the graveyard there was a loud argument among the fishermen as to the mechanics of how to lower the coffins. I read the 23rd Psalm and as I finished I heard clapping and cheering. Zanzibar Johnson, an old one-eyed sailor who’d chosen Sanak as his retreat from the world, was responding in his own fashion. I spoke a simple sermon in respect for the living present, saying it wasn’t for us to judge what was done and that we should remember the departed for their good qualities not for their last moments. Then I recited the Lord’s Prayer after which all the villagers went to their homes, except for the orphans, who were left to cover the graves of their mother and stepfather.

Two triple crosses were placed on the twin graves. These islands had been occupied by early Russians and the Russian Orthodox Church came with them. The only grave markers they had ever known were these. The marker has a little piece above the main crosspiece and then on the lower part a shorter slanted bar. The three bars represent the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

It seemed to me so cruel to allow the children the gruesome task of shoveling dirt onto the coffins, so I started to take over the job and have the kids return to the village. But an old man gently took hold of my arm and shook his head. I found that an outsider doesn’t change the established habits of a culture. This, he told me later, became their final act of grieving, separating the living from the dead. It was meant to show clearly to the children that they would not be seeing their parents ever again in this life.

I always wondered if the way Gurman looked at my wife coming across from False Pass had anything to do with this tragedy. This was our first week on this strange, isolated island and we wondered, with no little trepidation, what the following months might bring.

Sept 21st Our 8th day of school. We had good organization and lesson plans went well. Gave my first test today. The kids didn't do too well. We each took a bath in the wash tub set up by the stove. Mr. Halverson gave us a fresh salmon catch right in the Harbor via a gillnet which is technically illegal this time of year. One of our formal, unrealistic college professors that taught Teaching Procedures Class was Miss Graybill. There hasn't been a day go by that Sandy didn't ask with tongue-in-cheek, I wonder what Miss Graybill would have us do in this situation?

Marie at work at her desk ---Pauloff Harbor Territorial School

I bought a fixer-upper dory from John Holmberg who was about to discard it along with its old worn out nine horse Johnson engine. The boat had some broken ribs but I did some repairs to make it seaworthy (almost). I ordered some Johnson outboard parts from the Sears catalogue trying to make the craft usable in these Aleutian waters are known as The Cradle of Storms.

We found out how fast the weather changes during a trip to a neighboring island during our first sea trial of the dory.

Earlier I had taken seriously Katie