The Ms. Judy P. Story.

 That hit home. The Ms.Judy P. Story

On the Fourth of July, the FV Iceland sailed back into Sand Point harbor, weary and half-drunk from celebration. Covered in fish slime, oil, and grime, the crew headed straight to the Windward Café—the only restaurant in town—run by two young women, Judy P. and Brenda K. The place was packed with bearded, brawny fishermen, loud with fish tales and whiskey. The only table left was by the entrance.

As one of the waitresses carried two large pizzas from the kitchen, her sway caught my eye, and without thinking, I blurted, “I am in love!” Loud enough for the entire room to freeze. She turned, curious and red-faced, then smiled and carried on. My skipper, Donald, gripped my hand under the table and whispered sharply, “You got a death wish, peckerhead? Half the guys in here are already eyeing her.”

The guys teased me all the way back to the boat. That night, driven by whiskey and some strange compulsion, I set off to her apartment, through the dark, past homes and a silent Alaskan husky that sized me up like a spirit guardian. I passed the test. I knocked. She opened the door, startled and radiant in her nightgown. “I meant what I said this afternoon,” I told her. She told me to clean up and meet her the next day.

We ended up living together for nearly two years. Judy was from Kent, Washington, from a well-to-do Italian family. Our trailer home was full of laughter, frozen pizzas, Kahlua, and warmth. I became a member of the community—acted in local plays, sold more art than I earned fishing, and traveled with her to Fairbanks, Anchorage, even to Hong Kong, Thailand, and Malaysia.

But like all soap operas, the season ended. Our lives slowly drifted apart under the influence of family, friends, and fate. I lost my Alaska journals, my photographs, my sketches—all left with her, all a small price for what we had.

There wasn’t a grand lesson in it—just the simple beauty of something shared and real. She tasted the rhythm of Malaysian life, and I tasted the American dream, Italian-style. She had guts, grace, and charisma—the rare strength to run the only café in Sand Point and thrive. And me? I got to shout I was in love in a room full of grizzled fishermen—and survive to tell the tale.

Back then, everything felt like a rite of passage. And maybe it was.