Let Me Get a Bite: Austin’s Pilot Point Rendezvous

Day 1 Entry: We Made It… Barely

We left the airport ragged that morning, eyes bloodshot, body curdled, our pores pouring out the night before. Milla and I managed to miss our flight, but the misfortune quickly gave birth to fantastic timing. Due to the tardy, Stephen Perdue would be touching down in SEA-TAC from SF only moments after our new arrival.

Our crew may have started small, but we came in strong—and that really depends on how you define strong. After packing our crew into a small compact rental, we were off… and I was the captain, baby. Here we come Bremerton… or Silverdale… or Kingston… or wherever we’re going… Although our destination was not fully certain, one thing reigned prominent: we were coming in hotter than a falling fire ball in a midnight, Mid-Western sky.

Milla and I found the food in no-time at all. This setting was very much different than the sleepy part of Pilot Point where we had just set up camp. This was it—the place—the epicenter of the small, magical universe in which we had recently inhabited. A ferocious fire blazed right alongside the festivities, a group of people were on a starry, brambly stage jamming out, and the smell of homemade pozole filled the air; bringing smiles to the many bright faces. And there it was—a bubbling black cauldron of goodness, blasted right over the fire… Austin Iles style.

Day 2 Entry: Pigs, Shamans, & Forest Spirits

It wasn’t light out, but it was definitely morning. I awoke in a strange sweat lodge. Next to me, Milla was passed out cold and I could here a mixture of voices popping out from the still, surmounting darkness about. Patterns on the ceiling collided with the ample light flickering in—dancing and contorting shades and colors before my very eyes. I began feeling a bit claustrophobic, and after many attempts to awaken my slumbering wife, I gave up and left, only to realize that I had been in my tent the entire time.

The Patriot slept next door, a fading fire at its tail, sputtering its last lifeline into the abyss above. I could hear faint voices nearby, so I followed my ears. As I walked, I peered up, and the crisp sky brilliantly presented its dazzling display of cosmic gems; magnificence twinkling in my eyes’ reflection.

It almost looked as if they were bleeding onto the overhead canopies—those very same canopies that attempted to conceal them from sight. As I wondered deeply about it all, walking along, voices getting louder, I found myself drifting away—a solid feeling of freedom, fear, and infinity all swirled into one. Then I saw my destination—the fire—the epicenter of Pilot Point. No time for madness, I thought, so, with a shiver, I shook the feeling off my shoulders and continued to the three silhouettes guarding the fire ahead.

It was Adam, Perdue, and a fellow covered in soot and sweat, knee deep in the fire’s ash with an oyster in one hand and a shucking knife in the other. Charlie was his name and shuckin’ was his game. Eyes glued to the steaming oyster in his calloused hands—garnished with melted butter and delicious garlic—Perdue could hold himself no longer.

“Hey, Charlie,” blurted out Perdue, “let me get a bite!” He would pronounce “bite” more like “by-eet,” and exclaim the request more than, well, request it. Perdue’s rhetoric at first confused ole’ oyster-shuckin’ Charlie, but after a moment of registration, Perdue’s point made it across, and Charlie tossed the tasty half-shell into his eager fingers. Perdue slurped it down no problem but nearly choked as a loud eruption thundered across the property. Something was happening over yonder, off on a lonesome hill with a sleeping tee-pee snoring on its side. Whatever it was, whatever the hell was taking place, it looked bad ass.

That was the first time I saw Austin—over there, about 50 yards away from the oyster pit and main stage—over there, across a small ravine where a large tee-pee sat upright—over there, where the shit was going down. As Perdue and I scoped out what all the activity was about, we found ourselves amidst a group of warriors—ten or so strong—ready for battle. A large boar lay lifeless in a bed of banana leaves, and men were frantically trying to get this beast into a deep pit of coals. Austin led the troops—that savage band of soldiers who trekked on through, all the way ‘til 3:00 a.m. just to make sure that everybody had food the next day. As the large pig rolled into the coals, Perdue nudged me with his elbow, batted his eyebrows up and down and said,

“Ooo-wee, I can’t wait to take a bite of that!”

Tensions were high at this point and trash-talk was imminent. Perdue and I were way out of place, standing there dumbfounded as all hell. From the outside looking in, we looked like Sesame Street’s Bert and Ernie if they had been plopped into an action film. At one point, I thought WE might get knocked into the pit. Then, as fast as it all began, and thereafter the final shovel-load of dirt was laid upon the resting pig, the warriors tiredly dispersed back into the darkness—back into the vast land of Pilot Point. Suddenly, a roaring motor sliced through the silence. It was coming from the front of the property—at least two-hundred yards away—and it sounded like a dirt bike.

A single headlight came sputtering into Pilot Point at 4:00 a.m. Adam had reappeared from the deep forest, joining Perdue and I’s curiosity. It was kind of random that two mysterious figures on a 250cc came storming out of the ruralness at such an hour. As they got closer, and the bike sputtered its last breath, I could faintly hear a familiar voice. Could it? Nah, couldn’t be? The bike finally died, and the two figures hopped off, laughing hysterically as they did so. A moment of suspense washed over the three of us as the two helmeted figures approached. As the figure in the front took off his helmet, I knew then that my initial suspicions were correct. It was mothafuckin’ Bobby Dodd and his badass Uncle Boogie.

If I were to begin the tale of what Bobby and Uncle Boogie went through to make it to Pilot Point, well, I’d have a story longer than this one here. Let’s put it this way: our seven-hour detour was nothing in comparison to what those two went through that night. So, what better way to relax after a long journey than slamming back some cold ones? And I mean oysters.

Although the day was surely upon us, the night had not yet halted. Adam and Perdue dissolved into the surrounding forest, and Uncle Boogie long said, “Fuck it” and turned in. For a while, it was just Bobby and me, catching up, sharing laughs, beers, and oysters. Then a sudden rustling caught our attention. Both our heads jolted to where the sound derived and out came a slithering shadow—pacing up to us full speed. It was Connor.

There I was with a Shaman and a Forest Spirit, sipping on oysters and slamming back beers, sitting patiently with hopes of the approaching sun—and all the while, the morning’s first Seattle-Kingston Ferry was off in the distance, lazily sliding across the Sound, bellowing a lullaby as it reached its final port.