Green Eggs and Ham

I’ve spent lots of time refraining from doing things that I eventually end up enjoying—going to college, wearing socks with sandals, eating eggs—and now, after this weekend, I add another: visiting the San Juan Islands off the coast of western Washington, specifically, San Juan Island itself.

For all thirteen-plus years we’ve lived here, people have asked, “Have you been to the San Juans?” and I’ve answered, “Nah, not really interested. Too much hassle getting up there, and then, you’re on an island, which I don’t like because if the apocalypse hits, there you are stuck out there with no way to get back home,” to which they would respond, “But you’re a bike rider; you should love those secluded country roads,” and I would say, “Oh, that’s for taking bike rides, not bike riding,” and they would roll their eyes at what a cantankerous old fuck I seemed to be even before I was very old.

This weekend, though, along with Mimi, Jen, and her Dad, Sweet Old Bob, I busted my San Juan’s cherry, staying two nights at this place called The Lonesome Cove on the northeast tip of the titular island, and had a blast, drinking in the pastoral beauty of the island scene, riding my bike on deserted country roads, and even sampling the local oysters, grilled up on the Weber until they crack open for easy eating.

It took Sam I Am dozens of attempts to get the shaggy-haired protagonist of Green Eggs and Ham to eat that fabled breakfast, but in the end, he would eat them in the rain, on a train, with a goat, and even on a boat.

I wasn’t pestered nearly as much to sample the island life, which is perhaps why it took me over a decade to succumb; I’m glad I finally did, though, and expect to be back across the water for another visit.

Next up: I try riding a recumbent bike.

Or maybe not.